


Ecstasy

by loveslashangst, ophymirage



Series: The Faithful!Verse Series [2]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Faithful!verse, Goth music, Ianto in eyeliner and stompy boots, Jack goes undercover, John is the Dandy Highwayman, Knifeplay, M/M, OC, Torchwood AU, dangerous clothes, goth!au, needs the playlist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:50:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveslashangst/pseuds/loveslashangst, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophymirage/pseuds/ophymirage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flirtatious slash, evil music, gratuitous absinthe, implied drug use, Barcelonan chocolate liqueur, 51st-century lube. Ianto's favorite boots, John's favorite knife, and Jack's favorite... well, why spoil it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tease

**Author's Note:**

> Few things are more fun than starting with the theme of "tease".

"'Vaunt!   
\- Devil tyne -  
fore'ermae;  
Daunt - sinsyne thence,  
Ta'en as a dint,   
Angelique?"  
(Theatre of Tragedy)

(In which Ianto plans a night away, Jack needs a night out, and John wants a night on the town.)

 

 _It's happening again._ The first time, Ianto ignores it. He's had a few too many. He probably wandered away from the pub on his own. Maybe he just had a normal blackout, like any other normal eighteen-year-old who doesn't know his completely normal limits. (Though he does know his limits. He's always known his limits. Boy like him can't go out without knowing his limits or he risks grievous bodily harm.) The second time is worse. No alcohol. Dead sober. One minute, he's walking back to the dorm after a late evening studying (and yes, he was actually STUDYING) in the library. The next, he wakes up alone in his bed in the student dorms with no memory of five hours of time. ("Distressing" doesn't even begin to cover it.) And last night...

After the debacle at the museum with Stacey, he stopped the night walks. (Too many eyes watching him.) Community service and UCL during the day. Back to the dorm and pretend to sleep at night. The judge was kind enough to let him off easy -- only shoplifting instead of the B&E mark he should have had -- so Ianto felt he owed him the time and the good-faith effort to pretend to be normal. But last night the walls of that little closet of a dorm room closed in on him and he just had to get out...

Not thinking about it. Not thinking. He thinks too much. Worries too much. Needs to relax. There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. (Just because he hasn't found it yet doesn't mean it doesn't exist.)

When Spider passes him the card with the address for the next rave, he nearly faints with relief. Weird though it may sound, sometimes that crowd is the safest place. He's never lost time at a rave. And when he wakes in his bed, sometimes he's not alone. He'll go tonight. Have a few, but not too many. Enjoy the contact high of that many people indulging in that many substances. Lose himself in the music and the freedom of dancing like no one cares.

Maybe then he can pretend he's not losing his mind.

 _It's happening again._ The call from Yvonne wakes Jack about three in the morning. And, stupid him, he actually answers it. She spends the next two hours chewing his ass about how he needs to keep a better eye on the Jones kid, how the boy is becoming a nuisance, and how pissed she is that Jack saddled her with him in the first place. (So sue him; Torchwood 3 were losing their minds trying to avoid the kid. It's like Jones had some kind of radar that allowed him to home in on Rift activity. They couldn't keep RetConning a kid his age without doing major cognitive damage and DAMMIT London's a big city. Surely the overstuffed bureaucrats and bean-counting paper-pushers of Torchwood 1 could avoid one gangly teenager?)

So now it's his problem. Again. Jones used to make Alex nuts (well, before Alex himself went completely over the edge) -- the boy was too smart, too wily, too able to get into places he shouldn't. Now, thanks to that ugly incident New Year's Eve two years ago, Jack's inherited Torchwood 3, a new crew, and the same old problem: Without resorting to RetCon and without revealing the existence of any branch of Torchwood, how do you deal with a genius teenager who keeps finding Rift spikes and alien activity by accident?

It's a long-ass drive from Cardiff. And traffic is terrible. If Jack were smart, he'd have taken the train like a normal person, but he's not a normal person and Suzie outfitted the SUV with too many cool gadgets, gizmos, and emergency supplies for him to resist. (Besides, how would you like to explain what those little tablets and what that funny powder are to Security, especially rent-a-cops who don't have the clearance to know about Torchwood? Even if it is theoretically America's problem and America's war, 9/11 wasn't even a year ago, and every trigger-finger of law enforcement is still set to Extra Twitchy.) 

On the plus side, he'll get to dust off the club wear wise-ass Owen gave him for Christmas last year. (Love the mesh-shirt/men's-corset combo; the new medic has dead sexy taste for such a defiantly-straight guy. And the look on his face when Jack offered to model it for him privately was worth the two weeks of coaxing and reassurance it took before Owen stopped freaking out every time he and Jack were alone in a room together.)

As he pulls into the hidey-hole Yvonne arranged for the SUV (parking in London is hell), Jack makes a key decision. If lying is no longer an option, maybe the best bet is to tell the truth. Lay out Torchwood as a possibility for a new career for the kid. (As soon as he graduates, anyway.) 

After all, what eighteen-year-old DOESN'T want to be a secret agent? 

_It's happening again!_ Ooh! Just what John needs. He's developed such a taste for the early twenty-first century crowd on Earth. Booze. Sex. Drugs. Loud music that actually has quite a danceable beat. Lots of pretty things to play with. (And it's fun as Hell to show these kids exactly what kind of body mods are possible in the fifty-first century.) Just the kind of shore-leave he deserves after pulling off the most incredibly brilliant caper of all Time. (Pun intended.)

First things first: he swings by the nicest hotel money can buy and reserves a suite. (With any kind of luck, whoever he brings here will have an appreciation for the finer things.) Then he hops the Tube back to Camden Town. 

Even in a nineteenth-century infantry coat, seventeenth century boots and a pair of skin-tight velvet trousers he picked up in 1969, he is STILL not the strangest denizen of the London Underground. In fact, an American couple -- fifties, flabby, flushed, and in matching Disneyland jumpers, no less -- grin at him. ("Nice pants," says the overfed hubby.) He poses just long enough for the husband to convince his wife to sit beside him. ("Ooh. Let's get a local in the picture, Carol.") As soon as the stupid bastard raises the camera to his eye, John snogs the shit out of dear Carol, who seems to be getting into it about the time her enraged husband pulls John off of her.

And Camden Town is the next stop. With a rude gesture to the husband and a blown kiss farewell to Carol (who gives him a shy little wave in reply), John ducks off the train. Chuckles all the way up the stairs.

That's London 2002 -- always good for a laugh.

Happily, it doesn't take more than fifteen minutes of wandering UCL campus looking obvious before one of his favourite shags -- lovely little mostly-legal thing named Kim -- sidles up to him with a card bearing the address of tonight's party. ("Rave," the symbiont thinks they're called. Changes from generation to generation and a bloke can't always keep track over the centuries, even with a little help from his implanted partner-in-crime.) 

Kim has to stand tiptoe to murmur in his ear. "Will you be there, Adam?"

"Wouldn't miss it." He snogs her a good one in gratitude for the invite. Uses a bit of deep tonguing to remind her of that lovely encounter (let's see, it'd be about two months back on her personal timeline) and in memory of the one they'll have about seven months from now (give or take -- he's shaky on the date and the symbiont can't be arsed to look it up, worthless little worm, but John does remember the night with Kim being quite the fun time.) If no one else shaggable appears tonight, she'll do nicely as a present to himself. 

"Why d'you call me 'Adam'?" he says when they part.

Grinning, she tugs the braided lapel of his crimson infantry coat. "Adam Ant, only sexier." She presses that lovely length of flesh (nicely clad in layers of slashed black cotton and corduroy) against him another time. "And much more dangerous."

"And blond," he reminds her. "And we all know blonds have more fun." If one has to be a random pop idol, he could do worse than Adam Ant. (Some of that boy's songs are actually quite catchy in a British, androgynous, defiantly-angsty sort of way.) He cups Kim's lovely arse with both hands. (Hard to find through the modern-day bustle, but well worth the effort.) "So are you going to be Goody Two Shoes tonight, or will I get to see more of you?"

"Mmm." She brushes his lips with hers, smearing worse that heavy black shellac that Goth girls of this era consider lipstick. "Be your usual bad self and maybe you'll get to Stand and Deliver." And she slips out of his arms to continue passing out the invites.

God, he loves the twenty-first century. Hospitality par excellence.

 _At least here he's safe._ The warehouse thrums with music by the time Ianto arrives. (Trance in the main room. Looks -- and sounds -- like they've sectioned off the back half of the warehouse for the Industrial crowd.) The place is already packed. A sweet-harsh haze drifts over and through the crowd: cloves and Russian fags and the omnipresent bite of pot. (Even if he doesn't take anything, it won't be too long before he'll have a decent contact high.) And most of the faces are familiar. Though not all close friends, these people are at least a known quantity. He can relax a bit. Unwind. Forget in a good way. 

He's got his "armour" on, starting with a bit of smoky eyes and the long-sleeved shirt with all the D-rings up the front. (He loves the fit, but it does take about ten minutes to get into and almost as long to get out of.) Couple that with the front-lacing leather trousers, stomping boots, and the message should be clear: he's not going to leave with anyone who isn't worth the good half an hour it'll take to get him out of these clothes.

Kim sidles up to him. She's decked out in her full display, complete with dyed dreads, enough makeup to supply the West End for a week, bustled side-buckling skirt, and a lovely lace-trimmed bodice that shows off her assets nicely while still leaving something to the imagination. (Her taste in Neo-Victorian costume was one of the things that decided him that he liked her.) She hands him a jewelled flask, which he accepts. Probably absinthe laced with X, but he's in a mood for a little added happiness in his alcohol. He sips it slowly. Tries not to pull a face at the anise flavour. Sips it again. 

Grinning, Kim also takes a pull. Insinuates herself into his arms. (Not that he fights her much.) Rocks with him to the steady thrum of music.

"Drat this creature of   
memories   
ill,  
Foolhardy and fey I may be, yet him I   
shall quell."

And for a few minutes, Ianto pretends to be -- if not happy -- at least content. Here, he's not the weird one. Here, he's not alone. Here, he's just one of the crowd. And as he moves with Kim, he muses that -- depending on how the evening goes -- she may prove the kind-hearted distraction he needs. (Judging by her outfit, he'll have plenty of time to decide if that's what he wants before either of them will be naked enough for it to matter.)

When the song ends, he gives Kim a one-armed hug that says neither "yes" nor "no". Accepts one last sip from the flask. Moves farther into the crowd. Rolls the mouthful of laced absinthe on his tongue. Enjoys the slow slide into contentment as the constant surging of the music seems to sync itself to the silent throb of his pulse.

Neil brushes against him. Grinds against his hip, eyes intense. Boy doesn't know when to take "no" for an answer. Ianto patiently endures the caress down his chest (Neil's already well gone on X and likely something more), turns his head to avoid the kiss as politely as he can. (Someday the boy will respect his wish to pass for straight.) Neil's laugh drifts across his ear. "When you're ready to tell the truth, I'll be waiting."

(Yeah, Neil. That'll happen.) But the X must be kicking in, because the grope actually feels a little better than it should. Not good -- Ianto has a façade to maintain.

He extracts himself from Neil's grasp and wades deeper into the crowd.

 _At least here he's safe._ Jack watches from his spot across the street. Not more than five minutes ago, Jones slipped through the doors to the rave. Ironically, though this gathering isn't exactly legal in any sense of the word, this is one of the safer crowds the kid could've chosen; even if a full-scale multi-temporal invasion lands, Yvonne likely won't bother to RetCon this place. (Most of the people here would chalk up anything weird to a hallucination.)

And, worse comes to worst, Jack can always recruit the meth-heads in the back room, who -- if the overlapping bass that echoes off the neighbouring building is any indication -- are working themselves into a frenzy of violence set to music. Jones is safe inside, but getting in after him may be an issue. (His Torchwood credentials are unlikely to do him any good against the formidable bouncer who guards the door with his even scarier female counterpart -- Jack would truly hate to have her kick any part of his body in those six inch steel stiletto heels.) Moreover, the DJs inside have cranked the music to eleven, which means that even if Jack manages to get in and even if he can find Jones in this crowd without benefit of his usual gadgets and gizmos (he's already obvious enough as it is), actually being able to talk to the kid without anyone overhearing the shouting may become an issue.

Jack jogs across the street toward the thundering warehouse. Makes his way to the end of the queue. And as he walks, the kids are split about half and half between those who giggle at him and those who give him the skunk-eye.

Weird as it may sound, now that he's not the only one who's over- or under-dressed for the occasion, he has a momentary attack of self-consciousness: Has he actually become too old for a crowd like this?

He settles into place behind a pretty but hard-eyed girl in head-to-toe vinyl (love the hooded cape) and a guy who -- though clearly the girl's escort for the evening -- has lined his eyes in the heavy kohl of an Egyptian god and looks utterly at ease in a beautifully-tooled leather corset over what Jack thinks is referred to as a utilikilt. (One can only hope he's not going regimental in weather like this.)

"Evening," he says to them.

The girl takes a sullen drag on a black cigarette. The boy turns away to hide his laugh.

"No way Bob's letting you in," says the girl through a cloud of fragrant smoke.

When in doubt, turn on the aw-shucks charm. "Why not?" He wraps the leather duster tightly around himself, the lapels up as proof against the cold.

The girl's eyes, flashing and startlingly light in the midst of so much eye-liner, narrow. "Because you scream 'I'm undercover and I didn't do me fuckin' research 'fore I went out'." The North London accent gets more pronounced as she speaks. She takes another drag, giving him a look like his presence is ruining the taste of her fag.

The boy throws him an embarrassed look. Tugs the girl's arm in warning.

"You think I'm a cop?" This could definitely be an issue. Too many people to risk RetCon. He's going to have to talk his way in somehow.

"You can quit the fake American accent -- we ain't having none of that shite," says the girl. "And yeah, if you're not one of London's Finest, then I'm Billie fucking Piper."

The boy shoots him another apologetic look. "It's the corset, mate. Dead giveaway."

It's uncomfortable too. Much as he's always appreciated the sado-masochistic aesthetics -- he's as human as the next guy -- Jack never could understand how women stood having their insides squished like this. He opens his coat (Oh! Wow! Cold air on nipples is a bad thing!) enough to glance down at the torture device that's strapped around his body from hips to mid-chest. (Which is also nearly impossible to tighten correctly all by one's self.)

"It's upside-down," says the boy in answer to the silent question. "The point goes up. Draws the eyes up toward your chest. The flat seam should follow your hip line. Show the girls what a nice arse you have."

He doesn't have to fake the blush. (God, he really is too old for this. Last time he messed with corsets on a regular basis, women usually wore them and the point always faced down.) "My girlfriend -- she bought this for me. She said she'd meet me here, but..."

"So you a cop or what?" The girl's hostility hasn't abated even slightly.

"I am not a cop," he assures her. Telling the truth makes it easier; John -- who, along with everything else, did happen to be the most effective liar Jack ever knew -- always maintained that the most convincing lies were ninety percent truth. "I'm an airman. Captain. But I'm on leave and she said..." He lets his actual discomfort show a little. "If the other guys ever saw me like this..."

The boy laughs in pained sympathy. "Talked into it by a girl."

He latches on to the male solidarity. "Pretty much, yeah." He looks bleakly at the doors, which are much closer than they were a minute ago. "I am so screwed."

"Poor sod." The boy's eyes sparkle with amusement. He gives the girl a quick kiss and ducks out of line.

The girl does not soften. "You're not going to help him?"

"Hush." A bit of male pride shows in the boy's body language. "I'll meet you inside, love." He beckons to Jack. "C'mon, Captain Corset. We'll fix you right up."

What follows next can only be described as one of the stranger experiences of Jack's life. The boy ("Name's Salem.") ducks into an alley. Helps Jack strip off the corset. ("Poor bastard. November in London's a bitch, innit?") Fix the sleeves on the mesh shirt. ("No, mate, you push your thumb through the fabric below the seam. Yeah. Like that. Makes it look like fingerless gloves.") He has to admit that point-upwards is oddly more comfortable and much more sexy -- his nipples just peek over the edge of the vinyl -- but he can't stand being laced quite as tightly as Salem can pull. ("No worries. Corset virgins usually need some time before they get to like tight lacing.") Salem even digs a full makeup kit out of the sporran on his utilitkilt. ("You've got nice eyes, Captain, but Egyptian kohl will just make you look squinty. A bit of eye-liner on the upper lids -- that's right, don't blink. A bit of colour to accentuate the mouth -- God, I'd KILL to have lips like yours.")

Though rushed, the ritual has the curious feel of donning war paint. By the end of it, Jack feels stronger. Sexier. More settled. And much of the unease that'd been dogging him since he first donned this costume abates. (Especially after Salem pronounces him assembled enough to put his overcoat back on. Chilly though it may be, the leather does help cut the occasional gust of biting wind.)

"Voila!" Salem stows the kit back in his sporran. Buckles it soundly. Grins at Jack. "If I bent that way, I'd shag you."

He cups the boy's cheek. "Thank you."

With a smile, Salem steps back away from the touch. "I said IF I bent that way, Captain Corset." He jerks his head. "If Vervaine isn't still pissed as hell, we should be back to the queue just in time."

Smiling, he follows the boy.

"For what it's worth, sir," Salem says quietly. "Though I'm sure you have to pass for straight because the Yank military are a bunch of homophobic bastards, in this crowd you can admit it was a boy stood you up and not a girl."

He nearly misses a step in his surprise. "What?'

"We're all freaks here, Captain Corset," Salem assures him as they hustle toward the girl (who doesn't look any happier to see him than when he left). "No one's going to throw you out for swinging the other way."

And if the boy did swing both ways, Jack would kiss him for being a wonderful human being. As it is, he gives him a brief but heartfelt smile. "She's lucky to have you."

"Vervaine?" Salem chuckles as they approach his glaring girlfriend. "She's a bit rough around the edges, but she's all right."

"Who's this, then?" The bouncer cuts in before Vervaine can retort.

"Let him in, Bob," says Salem. "He's a Yank on leave from up Berkshire way."

"Welford man, is he?" Bob the Bouncer chuckles. "Different kind of flying you'll do in here, Captain."

Bob's female counterpart digs a mobile out of her hip-bag. "Let's see that ensemble, luv." Salem holds Jack's coat obligingly as he strikes a suitably moody pose. The female bouncer snaps a quick pic of him. Shows it to Bob, who nods his approval. 

Bob fixes him with a penetrating look. "Off you go, sir. Have a time, but if you start any trouble, that pic'll go straight to your C.O."

"And don't think we can't find his e-mail." The female bouncer tucks the mobile back in her hip-bag. "Wouldn't want him to have to come get you, lipstick and all."

Jack does his best to look chastened -- actually, come to think of it he'd really rather NOT explain this one to Owen -- smiles his gratitude, and enters what promises to be one of the best parties he's been to in quite some time.

 _At least here he's safe._ No Time Agency breathing down his neck. (Pathetic excuse though they may be for law enforcement and much as John's sure they're about to go the way of the Dodo, he has no desire to jeopardize his paycheck this close to retirement.) Once all interested parties received their merchandise and he got his due compensation for his excessive brilliance in carrying off the caper, John jumped back six months from the last drop-off point. (Never hurts to cover his tracks by confusing his time signature a little more.)

Now he's rich, he's set for future clients, he's made his name, and he's got great prospects. He'll be fine, even when the Time Agency implodes under the weight of its own obsolescence and corruption. (Kind of disappointing, though, considering that the corruption was one of the main reasons he joined.) And, to make his night even better, here comes Kim, cutting through the crowd like the deliciously ruthless little thing she is.

Sometimes happiness is as simple as an armful of lace and velvet and leather. (Some things never go out of style, and she does wear all those buckles well. Fun to think of how long it'd take to tease her out of them.) It doesn't take much more than an open-mouthed kiss to convince him to give her one good turn round the dance floor. Girl always was light on her feet. When she offers him that handy jewelled flask, he drains it dry. Lets the mix of alcohol and Ecstasy blur the rough edges off the world around him.

At her pretty pout, he offers her his own flask (from his own private stash, no less.)

Kim's eyes go wide with delight. "What's in it this time?"

He bends over her, hand at her waist to keep her pressed against him, and says in a conspiratorial murmur (or as close to a murmur as one can get while the music's roaring at one hundred twenty decibels,) "A taste of Barcelona."

(Of course, she doesn't need to know he means the planet and not the country.)

Kim pulls a face. "It's not port, is it?"

He gives her his best Affronted Look. "Sacrilege." He traces one finger along her cheek and to the point of one of those adorable fake fangs. "I know you don't drink... wine."

Laughing, she kisses him. Sniffs at the flask. Her eyes widen. (That's right, Little Miss, your species only THINKS it knows how to brew chocolate liqueur.) She gulps it greedily.

Chuckling with the buzz of a good head of absinthe and the imminent warm fuzziness of Ecstasy, he rescues the flask before Little Miss Chocoholic can drink it all. (She'll regret it in a minute when the effects kick in. Sugar rush has nothing on this stuff.) 

"Save some for your friends," he says.

He's seen cats lick cream from their chops with less greedy enthusiasm. "What else is in it?" she says.

"Upper," he replies. "Compatible with X and pot. Warn people to go easy on the booze for an hour afterwards. No acid and NO heroin."

The first razor-edge of fear creeps in her eyes. "It won't kill them, will it?"

"Kimmy, Kimmy, Kimmy," he scolds. "I'm hurt you'd think I might ever do anything to hurt our pretty little friends." He screws the cap back on his flask (genuine bootleg item he got from a genuine bootlegger.) "No, mixing drugs with this won't kill anyone, it'll just give them a killer case of the runs. Who wants to trip out while stuck on the crapper?"

Laughing, she snogs him again. He hands her the flask of Barcelonan chocolate liqueur and she trots off to share her prize with her lovely playmates. John pockets her empty jewelled flask as a souvenir. If he's feeling half so good when he gets back home to the fifty-first century as he does now, maybe he'll even refill Kimmy's flask and return it.

"Look into the mirror of your soul  
Love and hate are one in all  
Sacrifice turns to revenge and believe me  
You will see the face who will say  
I love you...  
I'll kill you...  
But I love you forever..."

Whistling a happy tune that has nothing to do with the Enigma track that's playing, John has a look round at his prospects.

 _He really shouldn't be here, should he?_ That man's been tailing Ianto for a while now. Tall, dark, and handsome in a way he thought disappeared with Cary Grant and Clark Gable. (Movie idol. He's gorgeous as a movie idol.) And though the ensemble the man is wearing only accentuates his beautiful lines and toned form, Ianto's sure that if he were a bit less floaty, he'd be able to pinpoint why this guy doesn't belong here.

The man manoeuvres his way through the crowd as though the party scene is familiar and comfortable territory. Smiles his hello.

Ianto beats him to the first word. "Why are you following me?" It's hard to be hostile when one's feeling so mellow, but he does his best.

Surprise turns to a charming smile (Ohhhhhhhh. Pretty. Don't be so pretty. Surely there's some smarminess beneath that easy confidence?) 

The man extends a hand. "Captain Jack Harkness."

He struggles through the pleasant fuzz for some hard edge. He can't even find fault with the Captain's costume. The man reeks of authority, yet he's picture perfect from the beautifully-tailored vinyl corset to those pettable corduroy trousers. Edible from head to toe. He's also fifteen years too old (at least) to be in with this crowd. A walking contradiction and DAMN him for having such a gorgeous sparkle to those eyes.

He takes the Captain's hand without offering his own name. "Good to meet you, Captain Harkness." He pulls back his hand as quickly as he reasonably can. "Sorry. I have to go."

The Captain actually catches his arm when he turns. "Look, I'm sorry to have to be blunt like this, but I really need to talk to you."

He gives his best chilly smile. "Then you should really talk to someone else, sir," he says, clearly and firmly. "I don't do boys."

He pulls out of the Captain's grip and lets the crowd envelop him.

 _He shouldn't be here, should he?_ Just as Jack has almost recovered from being dismissed by his teenage would-be charge, he spots none other than his psychotic ex, bumping and grinding with a group of black-clad, streaky-haired kids. (The shameless bastard. Though in a weird sort of way that crimson coat fits right in here)

And what really ticks Jack off is that his ex looks up, smiles, and then completely ignores him. (They are sooooo going to have words before Jack leaves London. Who knows what mayhem that criminal has been up to?)

A pretty, round-faced girl in blue, purple, and black dreadlocks steps in front of him, moving sinuously to the beat. "You're new here."

He smiles, putting in a bit of the Harkness sparkle. "You must be the welcome wagon."

She smiles, closed-mouthed, in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. "Actually, I'm Kim." 

Ouch. Shut down twice in five minutes. This is starting to be bad for his ego. When Kim offers him a flask, he takes it. Sniffs a bit. Oh God! Barcelonan chocolate liqueur! It's been ages since he tasted...! (And he is seriously going to have to KILL John if he's spreading stuff like this around with no regard for the timeline.) 

But, of course -- being only human -- he can't resist a good long drink. It tastes even better than he remembers. Hits his veins like thick, rich laughter in liquid form. Sets him grinning in spite of himself.

"Good, isn't it?" Kim takes her flask back. Blocks his path, moving to the music with far more sinuous grace than he might expect from someone in a corseted bodice. "So how do you know Ianto?"

"Who?" he says. (When in doubt, play dumb.)

"Ianto," she repeats. "The boy you've been shadowing ever since he showed up. If you're looking for company, I should warn you not to get your hopes up; half the boys here are praying for the day Ianto decides to switch."

Oh man, she thinks he wants to lay the kid. "It's not like that."

She has the most alarming and yet arousing way of moving with him. "Then what is it like?"

Okay, when in doubt, retreat to a little bit of truth. "I'm here to offer him a job." At the disbelieving eyebrow Kim raises, he says, "Something he's already very good at."

Kim takes another hit from her flask. "Keeping to himself and refusing chat-up lines?"

He just can't refuse when she offers him another sip. (Who knows when he'll get another taste of this?) "That too."

The girl leans closer. "Ianto is a little weird -- which should tell you something, coming from me -- but he's always been a sweet guy and a perfect gentleman." She flashes what Jack guesses are fake fangs. (Though they fit her teeth so well it has to be a professional job.) "Hurt him," Kim continues, "and you answer to me and my friends." 

She weaves her way back into the crowd. "Enjoy the rave, Captain Corset."

 _He shouldn't be here, should he?_ Of all the raves in all the years in all the cities on all the planets, Jack just HAD to pick this one. Pisses John off and comes perilously close to harshing his well-deserved mellow. Well, nothing is quite so satisfying as watching Kimmy dress down his heartless ex. (That's right, Jack, this is my sandbox, these are my toys, and in case you're too old and decrepit to hear it properly, that happens to be my music playing.)

Well, sometimes it's his music. He'll claim it when Sisters of Mercy are on.

He pulls the three girls closest to him even closer. Uses the beat as a thin excuse to rub and grind to the music. Makes sure Jack gets an eyeful before John turns his back on him a second time.

The only way this could be better is if he could steal whatever trick Jack's after right out from under his nose.

 _Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night._ At least Ianto's finally put enough distance between himself and that Captain fellow. Strange guy. (And he is NOT thinking of the sparkling flirt of those blue, blue eyes or the way that unkempt fringe dipped so perfectly over the Captain's forehead. It's not fair for the man to bear such a strong resemblance to the man who's appeared in Ianto's dreams since he was a child.)

Someone runs a reassuring hand down his back. The touch feels good. His hands brush the velvet of someone's bodice. Anonymous, but familiar. These people are good. He begins to loosen up again. The crowd is in a good mood tonight, made all the better by a bit of camaraderie, a bit more booze, and a little chemical enhancement. Dancing feels good. People feel good. The world feels better and better by the second.

Then he sees the man in the red coat and is lost.

 _Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night._ If life were fair, Jack would be able to enjoy every body that brushes against his. Every stray hand that caresses the vinyl corset. Every set of fingertips that stroke the corduroy of his trousers. Every beat of the music that envelops him. Even those two sips of Barcelonan liqueur were too much, but it's hard to resent the happiness that seems to make the music into a living, smiling thing. Every cheer and shout and this haze of smoke only feel more and more like home. These people want to find bliss. Want to wrap themselves in it. And so does he.

As he relaxes, the young people around him move closer. Hands wander over his arms. Shoulders. Tease the top edge of the corset. Whisper along the bottom edge. Smiling, a girl turns his head. Molds herself to his body. Kisses him. Teases his nipples through the mesh shirt. Turns him toward her partner, a boy with lovely deep eyes and skin as dark as the girl's. He goes willingly into the boy's embrace. Tastes spices and the quiet offer of sex. Someone suckles his fingers. He gasps in pleasure at the startling nip of teeth at his wrist. Lips tease the back of his neck. Hands. Mouths. All around Jack is the press of willing flesh. The trust of strangers. The safety of anonymity. The bliss of being worshipped to the constant beat of deafening music.

If Jack didn't need to find the Jones kid, this would be as close to Heaven as he's been since he left his own time.

 _Not exactly the way he'd planned to spend his night._ There's no shortage of pretty and willing playmates in this group, but John learned long ago to listen whenever that sixth sense he describes as "lust-dar" goes off. Anytime, anywhere his senses catch a whiff of someone looking his way with conscious intent to bed, he finds he can't concentrate on anything else.

There. The pretty little Goth boy over there. (Not that "Goth" exactly narrows it down in this crowd.) Round cherubic face. Pale eyes that seem to shift colour in what little light there is. Good build. Kinky plethora of D-rings down the front of that nicely-tailored shirt. From the glimpses he gets as the crowd moves, the boy has tight trousers over good strong legs. All the better to strip off slowly. (Yummy, yummy, yummy.)

He can feel as well as see that flush of passionate recognition. That moment when the pretty thing says to himself, "YOU!"

And who is John to resist so delicious an invitation? 

The Seven Deadly Sins are often the most effective start. John grinds closer to the girl in front of him. (Always start with Lust.)

The boy watches in stolen glances.

John teases the girl's mouth, eyes on the boy. (A little Envy for you, you pretty thing?)

The boy misses a beat. Stumbles. Turns away, though even from here, John can see the tension in his shoulders is from conflicted desire. (He does so love being right.)

He caresses the girls farewell. Lets the music move him closer and closer. Savours the stray touches that greet him as he sidles closer to his prey. (They might want me, gorgeous, but I only have eyes for you.)

The sweet kid is trying so hard not to look. Not to notice. Not to want. But even a blind man would feel that sweet conflict -- the burning need beneath the thin veneer of cool disinterest. (Poor repressed little thing.)

He indulges in a bit of Vanity. Flashes the left side of the asymmetrical tee. Even with the jacket on, when John angles just right his left nipple peeks over the top edge of the shirt.

The boy must've seen it too, judging by the blush. "I... I... I'm not into boys."

"Good," John says. "I'm not a boy."

Now for some Sloth. Brush past slowly. Slowly. Slow look. No touch. No rush. All the time in the world. Move in sync with the music. Let the boy find the rhythm. Encourage those thoughts with a look, but never invade his space. (You come to me, my lovely, or you don't come at all.)

Then leave him hot and bothered and unfinished on the dance floor.

 _This just isn't fair._ Ianto watches the man dance sinuously away. He should just stop LOOKING at him. Like the Captain, this man is older than the rest of the crowd. Should be a turnoff, but instead Ianto just wants to reach out to him. To follow him. (To f-- No... Can't think that.)

Though still slowly gyrating away, the man casts a steaming-hot look over his shoulder. (Come here, you lovely thing.) And though it's not the first time someone's given Ianto a bedroom-eyed look, it is a new experience to want every one of the silent suggestions in those eyes. 

It pisses him off, the arrogance. As if Ianto would ruin everything he's built for one quick frot on a dance floor. But oh, one quick frot is not all the man in the red coat is offering. He has the quiet, patient calm of a man who knows what he's doing and is very, very good at it.

Hungry. He's starved for the touch. He's been so good for so long. Is it really so wrong to want...?  
Another smouldering look. Ianto's insides turn to mush. Suddenly the buzz in his veins is from a very different high. This one isn't fooled by anything. Sees him for what he is. Wants him just as he is. No need to hide or pretend. And though the man in the red coat is not the first to call him on his desires, it is the first time Ianto's ever wanted someone to lay him bare in every sense of the word, and that desire scares the hell out of him.

He follows the man. (He'll just have a quick dance. A quick dance never hurt anyone.)

"Tomorrow is hard to find  
And it seems like twenty five years of  
Promises and give me more  
Scenes of a hand-me-down in  
Dresses heard before..."

The man turns to him when Ianto finally draws close. Again, no touches. No invasion of space. But even so, it's like the man's hands can send heat and want straight into him even without touching him. Like he knows how Ianto's wired and how to exploit it. Even as the man in the red coat moves them off the dance floor, the subtle seduction feeds so perfectly into Ianto's mellow high that he doesn't really see the point of resisting. (This one might be worth getting undressed for.)

"First and last and always:   
Til the end of time..."

Ianto reaches out. Strokes the gorgeous gimp of the coat. (My God, it almost feels real.) Loses himself in deep eyes that seem to have seen all the wonders of the universe.

(Teach me what you know.)

"First and last and always:   
Mine."

A gentle hand at his waist. Chaste but full of so many possibilities. Testing. (Do you want this, pretty boy?) The man circles slowly behind him, a warm, patient presence. They move in perfect sync. He wants him. And Ianto should just move away. Get out the glare again, turn, and make the man back the fuck off.

He has the sense that if he told him to stop, the man would. But instead, he takes a step back. Moves into the beautiful stranger's arms. Lets the man in the red coat wrap himself around him. Savours the rush of heat from that first heady contact.

Why this one? Why now? He must be insane. But the man has the most heavenly aftershave -- cinnamon and woodsmoke and spices -- a nonverbal promise of what's to come if he consents. Ianto's whole body tightens sweetly, anticipating, as the man moves them both into the shadows that ring the dance floor.

Lips brush his neck. He arches into the touch in spite of himself.

"You really are gorgeous, aren't you?" says that voice in his ear, clear above the rush and thunder of bass. Slow, sure hands run up his chest. "Shall I stop, my lovely?"

Ianto turns in the man's arms and answers him with a kiss.


	2. Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (In which Ianto plans his first dance, Jack needs a second dance, and John wants to dance for the rest of his life.)

"We move like cagey tigers  
Oh, we couldn't get closer than this  
The way we walk, the way we talk  
The way we stalk, the way we kiss  
We slip through the streets while everyone sleeps  
Gettin' bigger and sleeker and wider and brighter  
We bite and scratch and scream all night  
Let's go and throw all the songs we know  
Into the sea, you and me...

"...We should have each other to tea, huh?  
We should have each other with cream  
Then curl up by the fire and sleep for a while  
It's the grooviest thing, it's the perfect dream..."  
(The Cure)

(In which Ianto plans his first dance, Jack needs a second dance, and John wants to dance for the rest of his life.)

 

_Lips brush Ianto's neck. He arches into the touch in spite of himself._

"You really are gorgeous, aren't you?" says that voice in his ear, clear above the rush and thunder of bass. Slow, sure hands run up his chest. "Shall I stop, my lovely?"

Ianto turns in the man's arms and answers him with a kiss.

 _This just isn't fair_. Jack only took his eyes off the kid for a minute. He could swear it was only a minute. (And if the girl rocking sweetly against him doesn't take her hand off his crotch, he might just ruin these very nice trousers.)

Much as he adores the touches, the kisses, and just generally being worshipped, he really can't afford this. Jack works his way back out of the crowd, which turns its attention to a new idol. Dammit. He shouldn't regret turning away. He shouldn't regret leaving. 

He should've been more professional in the first place, but "professional" usually doesn't involve tight Gothic clothing, a hypnotic beat, and a raging hard-on. (Oh, it's like a taste of the very best of home after a century of repression and want.)

Grimly, Jack scans the crowd for his missing quarry.

 _This just isn't fair_. It's too easy. Too good. The kid is a FANTASTIC kisser, all need and want and barely repressed desperation. Like the proverbial dam breaking, once his pretty little Goth boy gives in, he makes a helluvan armful. Hungry kisses in greedy bites. John chuckles in spite of himself -- he was right about this one.

When the kid finally comes up for air, John holds him, the boy's arms tight against his chest, hands fisted in his coat. Both of them are a bit breathless. And even in the near-dark of the shadows, he can see the conflict in the boy's eyes. (Think I'll call you "Byron", my lovely -- a poet's sensibilities, a lovely face that hides a knowing heart, just a hint of angst to make you interesting.)

He cups the boy's face in his hands. Kisses his "Byron" as tenderly as he can. The lovely creature begins to tremble in his arms. But he doesn't pull away. Doesn't tense. Instead, he kisses back with all the intensity of a drowning man gasping for his last breath of air. (Thought you had to hide, didn't you? Not with me, darling. Never with me.)

And that's pretty much the moment when John realizes what he's found. Not just repressed. Not just hungry. Some of Byron's sweet shyness comes from inexperience. Moreover, even an idiot can tell this one's been hurt, poor baby, and is looking for someone to love him all better.

Lucky for him, John is very good at loving people all better. (He seems to recall that first tryst with Kim involving more than a little sexual healing.) And now that he knows what he knows, how can he in good conscience abandon his Byron to the ravening crowd? Hunter though John may be, there are true predators here, as in any large gathering, and this sweet boy is too tempting a morsel to leave for them.

Nothing heals the soul quite so nicely as a generous lover.

 _He will follow him to the ends of the earth_. The man in the red coat -- infantry coat, though the man acts more like a commander. Maybe a Musketeer? The man in the red coat drapes a slightly possessive arm around Ianto's shoulder. A giddy freedom that has nothing to do with the drugs surges in his veins. (Aramis. The man's like a modern-day Aramis -- the allure of an easy smile, and he definitely has all the unchaste thoughts one might expect from a thoroughly defrocked seminary student.)

He's going to go home with this "Aramis." Damn the consequences. The trust is such an alien sentiment. Perhaps he should be more suspicious of it, but some sixth sense he can't put into words will not let him withdraw from this beautiful stranger.

The November air is a chilly tonic in his veins, like well-iced champagne -- bubbly and intoxicating all in one. Aramis shifts his arm to Ianto's waist. It may be a mistake, but it feels too good to object. As soon as they're a block from the rave, Ianto slips his own arm around Aramis's slender waist. Looks to him for approval.

Aramis's grin flashes in the dim.

They walk in silence for another block before the high begins to wear off. (God, he doesn't even know Aramis's real name.)

"Where are we going?" Ianto says.

Another flash of a grin. "The Landmark."

He must've misheard. "I'm sorry?"

"The Landmark Hotel, Marylebone, London, England," Aramis says. His accent's odd. Not quite American, but not British either. Hard to place except as "not from here".

And he's just named one of the poshest spots Ianto can think of. He's been by the hotel before -- lovely old palatial spot from the Age Of Steam. But he's sure it costs a bomb to reserve even the cheapest room. (If it's not at least three hundred quid per, Ianto would be amazed.)

Not that he's one to question good fortune, but... "Em. Can you afford it, sir?"

Aramis sweeps him into a rather heady embrace. Snogs him soundly. "Darling, you have no idea how long I've been looking forward to a night like this."

The kiss. The smell of him. Firelight and spices and over it all in the cinnamon. Warm in the cold. And he's solid and alive and not a dream at all and Ianto's carefully-crafted yes-I'm-straight façade will be utterly destroyed before this night is through.

That thought really should bother him more than it does.

But if Aramis can afford a luxury room in a luxury hotel, why are they heading for Camden Town Station?

Time to find out who he's stepped out with. "I know a shortcut to Marylebone."

"Do you?" Aramis looks intrigued. Appraising. There's a finely-tuned mind behind those grey eyes, dark in the dim, and Ianto has the sense that Aramis is evaluating him every bit as much as Ianto's judging him.

He nods. "I go to school near here."

"UCL?" Aramis says.

He nods again. "Tube won't be open this time of night, and even if it were, the ride's longer than if we just walk."

Aramis pulls him close. The FEEL of him. Toned. Lithe. Stronger than his light build would seem to indicate. "Warmer, though."

Ianto's eyes droop closed in pleasure at the kiss. Aramis's hands drift slowly up his back. He shivers in ways that have nothing to do with the blast of frigid air as the wind assaults them again. In Aramis's arms, he could be safe and warm.

He chases the kiss. Teases Aramis's lips with his. Pulls him in. And the more he seeks what he wants, the more Aramis hums with pleasure.

"If you want warm," Ianto teases. "We could always run."

Aramis pulls back, smiling. Cocks an eyebrow. "Think you can keep up?"

"That won't be the issue." His brain is already mapping several possible routes through Regent's Park. "How are you at scaling fences?"

Aramis snorts disdain. "Darling, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Good." He smiles in spite of himself, thinking of the narrow bridge by the Boating Lake, just before the Outer Circle. "When I lose you, you won't be such a bother to find."

"Was that a challenge?" But Aramis sounds amused, not annoyed.

He brushes Aramis's lips with his, then takes off at a dead run. (Catch me if you can.)

And much to his pleasure, not only does he hear pounding feet hard on his heels, but the Capatin's delighted laugh ricochets off the buildings.

 _He will follow him to the ends of the earth_. Jack will have to; when Yvonne finds out he lost the kid because he was letting himself get felt up at a rave...

Oh, he is SO going to leave this part out of his report.

You'd think it'd be impossible for him to find anyone in this crowd, but Kim is distinctive even among all the velvet and leather and buckles and oh dear God please say that that boy's spikes are all externally-fixed and not implanted.

Physical touch seems to be more acceptable in this crowd than in most twenty-first century situations, so he dares a chaste caress at Kim's waist. She turns in his arms. Her smile fades quickly once she recognizes him.

"Kim," he says by way of greeting.

"Captain Corset," she replies, though she never misses a beat of her dance.

"Who did he leave with?" Much as he'd love to finesse this one, if Jones is in danger, the sooner Jack knows about it, the quicker he can ride to the kid's rescue. (Why the hell did he let him out of his sight?)

"I'm not sure how that's any of your affair," she says. She doesn't ask who he's talking about, though.

He lets her see a hint of the sheer weight of his responsibility in his eyes. "Is Ianto Jones in danger?"

She stiffens a little, but the lazy insolence leaves her look. "Adam's never hurt anyone. Everyone says he's a generous host and a fantastic lay."

He pulls her close. Loosens up a little. Turns on the charm now that they're getting somewhere. "Who's Adam?"

"That's not his real name," Kim says. "Don't know his real name; he never tells it. But it's the coat. The red coat, like some sort of Cavalier or something."

Oh God. There's no way the Fates could be that cruel. "Blond?"

Kim nods.

"Slightly shorter than me? Slighter build too?"

Kim nods more vigorously.

"My age or a little older?" He is going to fucking KILL John.

"You know him, then?" Even as she's batting those lovely eyes at him to feign innocence, he can tell Kim's trying to put two and two together.

He fakes the half-grin. "We go back, Adam and me." He cuts her off before she can quiz him further. "Where's he staying this time?" She'll probably lie to him, but at least it'll give him a place to start.

"Got a taste for the posh life," says Kim. "Likes nice hotels. Somewhere on the Tube, usually. Makes it easy to get home the next morning." She smiles. "Always the gentleman is our Adam."

"Which hotel, Kim?"

Her eyes are veiled. "Try the Academy."

"The Academy Hotel?" But it fits John's pattern -- finish a con, skip back in time, get drunk, find company, have a fantastic shag, return home in time to pretend he still works for the Time Agency. (Good times. Sometimes he almost believes he doesn't miss them.)

"The Academy Hotel." Kim dares him with a look to call her a liar.

He gives her a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Thank you."

Now to figure out what the hell became of his overcoat, get back to the SUV, and track down an anomalous time signature.

 _He will follow him to the ends of the earth_. God, just when he thought he'd had the best high of the evening, John's lovely little Goth boy leads him on this merry chase through Camden and onto the wilder paths of Regent's Park. "Byron" ducks through gates and over fences with no regard whatsoever for restricted areas or private property.

And he'd be lapping his lovely boy if it weren't for the hard-on.

It's not just the thrill of the run. The chill of the air. The way he has to keep Byron constantly in his sights lest he duck or dodge in directions John hadn't anticipated. It's that Byron is a hunter, like him. Perhaps not blooded and certainly not a born assassin (though that well-suppressed rage could be useful), but he understands the thrill of the chase. (Heart racing. Blood pumping. Darling, how did you know what does it for me?)

Byron KNOWS this place. Not just the main drags and easy thoroughfares but also the wild spots where no one will see their passage. And he doesn't pause even for a moment. Oh no. Not even to catch his breath. (Athletic thing, isn't he?) It's as though Byron's got their whole flight plan mapped out in his head.

(Note to self: Whoever this brilliant young man is, don't underestimate him.)

He catches Byron on the little footbridge past the lake. Spins him into his arms. Kisses him until they're both a different kind of breathless. And Byron is flushed and warm and smells of the promise of sex. They snog rather shamelessly for what feels both a blissful eternity and not nearly long enough.

"N-n-nearly there." Byron has the most adorable stammer.

John rubs a little more insistently against him. "Yes, darling. Me too."

With a half-laugh, Byron kisses him and scrambles off into the dark.

It's been a long time since John was this determined to catch anyone when it didn't involve money, a contract, or vendetta. Whoever this boy is, he intrigues the shit out of him, which is a decidedly new sensation. (Usually, it's just enough that his partners are pretty and willing.) And though John hasn't yet gotten the pleasant lay he was originally looking for, this will be a night he'll remember. (You will be a fixed point in my personal timeline, my lovely, by which I will reckon "before" or "after".)

Byron is out of breath by the time they dodge back onto proper streets ("Melcombe", the symbiont seems to think this is, though it's a bit fuzzy about whether it's "Street" or "Place".) The final few blocks are an easy jog, more for show than for any real competition. John has the sense that as much as Byron is passing his tests, so is he passing some as-yet-unspoken requirements.

Of course, after-hours entry can be annoying even at the poshest places. (Worst thing about having this much implanted tech is the ambient radiation. Destroys the charge on these primitive magnetic card keys every time, which means that even when he's a legitimate guest who paid in cash, he still has to pick the damn lock.) 

Fortunately it's nothing that can't be fixed by a little electro-magnetic tinkering from his Vortex Manipulator.

And though he tries to be subtle and pretend he uses the completely-useless key-card to gain entry, he knows Byron doesn't miss that cheat from tech that hasn't been invented yet. (God, you turn me on, you brilliant thing.)

He stows the key-card with a flourish and pulls Byron inside the lobby.

 _He's really doing this_. Ianto's heart hammers in his chest. The run was an odd kind of relief. Work off some of the tension. Work off some of the high so he's thinking clearly. Work out how much he can rely on this man whose name he doesn't even know.

"Aramis" wasn't kidding when he said he could keep up. No matter how Ianto tried to lose him, he followed every turn. And the kiss on the bridge...

It's all he can do not to grin like an idiot at the thought.

And of course, they snog and grind against each other like shameless newlyweds in the lift. The beautiful man's body has become familiar to him, even in so short a time. Now each embrace feels more and more like home. He can trust this stranger. He WANTS to trust this stranger. Whoever Aramis is, he's seen and done amazing things and, if Ianto is good enough, maybe he'll get to share some of them with him.

The lift dings. The doors open. Aramis laces his fingers with Ianto's. Pulls him gently into the hall. Leads him down toward a sumptuous doorway. Slides the key card into the door as a cover for whatever weird thing he's doing with that wrist-strap of his.

The door opens. 

Oh God, he's doing this. He's really doing this. He can't back out now. He's followed a gorgeous stranger to his gorgeous room in a gorgeous hotel and my GOD if his father could see the way this room is apportioned. (Floor-to-ceiling draperies. Genuine period antiques to complete the illusion of Victorian opulence.)

Aramis sheds his coat with an easy shrug. Folds it lovingly. Lays it on a sumptuous chair.

"It's beautiful," Ianto says.

"Should be at eighteen hundred per." Aramis heads for a stand. Against all possible logic, there's a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of fresh ice. Beside it is a table with two champagne flutes. (Did Aramis call ahead to the hotel while they were ducking through bushes and sprinting across pitches?)

"I... I meant the coat, sir." He accepts the brimming flute when Aramis offers it to him. Sips in a way that's sure to only put an exclamation point on how nervous he looks. "How did you come by it?"

Aramis sips his own flute. Rolls the champagne in his mouth, which only draws attention to those gorgeous cheekbones. Swallows slowly, enjoying every drop. Slides an arm around Ianto's waist. "Now why would you want to know about my coat?"

He can't seem to turn off his brain. "It's made from fabric that, if not actual stock from the nineteenth century, is a fairly flawless reproduction. Gimp's right too. Are you a soldier, sir?"

"I love it when you call me 'sir'." Aramis kisses him deeply. Recovers his easy smile. "And no, my lovely, I'm not a soldier. The coat belonged to one, though. He gave it to me after I saved his life."

"You saved someone's life?" Surprised. He shouldn't sound surprised. Aramis might take offense. "I mean..."

"I've saved many people's lives." Aramis's mouth is so close he can feel the heat of it. (Oh yes, please.) "Even if they don't always know it." The man makes him ache to taste him in every sense of the word. "Shall I save you tonight, my lovely?"

(Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yesyesyesyes!) "C-c-could do, yeah."

Aramis pulls back, chuckling. "You, darling, are patently adorable." He runs the fingertips of one hand in ever-increasing spirals across Ianto's back. Encourages him to take another sip of champagne. "So what else have you noticed about me?"

(Stop talking. Just stop talking and be happy that you're about to get what promises to be a five-star shag.) Ianto actually enjoys the champagne this time. "Erm. Your boots?"

A cautious appraisal. (And oh please don't stop doing that with your fingers.) "My boots?"

"Th-they-- they're either a fantastic forgery or you have a friend who's a vampire." (Please, please, please stop making stupid jokes and just get naked. No one wants to hear such nonsense.)

Aramis cocks his head, amused and intrigued. "A vampire? Why, darling? How old d'you think they are?"

He gulps another swallow, too quickly this time. OW! Champagne up the nose bloody STINGS. He turns away. Chokes. Sputters. Aramis pats him on the back, sympathetic. Ianto takes another sip, if only to prove that he IS in fact capable of drinking fine champagne without looking like a complete arse. "F-four hundred years, give or take?" he says. The champagne tastes good, clear and cold and dry. "Or maybe you're some kind of time traveller."

Aramis goes very still. Smiles. Kisses him gently. "Music," he says. "I think a little music is called for here." Though it's undoubtedly meant to seem like magic, Aramis does something with that odd wrist strap again.

An introspective melody begins to churn to a sensual beat. (Dead Can Dance, unless he's mistaken -- several of his friends favour this as nonverbal foreplay.) Ianto bolts the rest of his glass. Burps loudly. "Oh. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Chuckling, Aramis refills the glass and his own. "More slowly this time, darling." He tips the glass up to Ianto's lips. "Taste it. Roll it on your tongue. A bit of bite. A bit of dry. A bit of effervescence."

Only Aramis could make champagne a borderline pornographic experience. (Not that he's complaining.) He rolls the mouthful on his tongue. Enjoys it.

Aramis watches him, eyes warm and suggestive. "Better?"

"Much, ta." He keeps his eyes on the flute as the bubbles trace their ways up the sides. "I'm sorry, sir -- I always talk rubbish when I'm nervous."

Aramis tips Ianto's chin up. "Nervous, I believe, but rubbish?" An oddly affectionate kiss. "Never, darling."

(Whoever you are, I love you for that.)

After another swallow for courage, Ianto sets his glass down. Begins to loosen the first of the D-ring straps at his throat.

Aramis watches him over the rim of his flute. "You look like a condemned man fitting himself for a noose."

Blunt, but the quip releases tension he hadn't even been aware of. "I... I just know that you... That we..."

Aramis sets his glass down beside Ianto's. Moves close. "Just kiss me for a minute."

And he does. Familiar. This is familiar. He can do this. That cinnamon scent drifts around him again, awakening all his senses. (It's really not fair for a man to smell this good.) Tension drains out of his body. Aramis's mouth is soft and hard in turns. The man leads him. Teases him. Gives. Takes. Generous and open. Possessive and demanding. Hot as hell and as much a contradiction as everything else about him.

When Ianto reaches again for the D-rings, it's not out of obligation, but because he's pretty sure if they keep this up much longer, he'll come without any further prompting. Smiling around the kiss, Aramis begins to loosen the fastenings at the bottom of the shirt. Ianto works down, Aramis works up, and they meet in the middle.

"Just like Christmas," Aramis says, grinning.

(For me too.) He fumbles at his wrists to undo the last straps. Eyes warm, Aramis slides it down his arms. Over his wrists and fingers. Smooth hands caress him. Drift over his bare skin. Tweak at his nipples, oddly playful.

Trembling, he reaches for the hem of Aramis's shirt. Pulls upwards. Aramis tosses it aside. (Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Too gorgeous for words.) Strong, toned arms. Perfect chest. When he runs a trembling finger down, Aramis's belly contracts into an exquisitely-defined array of abs.

"I keep in shape." Aramis's blue-grey eyes twinkle.

Before he can reply, Aramis sinks to his knees. Ianto nearly faints with a rush of desire and anticipation.

"These are the rules." Aramis kisses his way up his abdomen. "No one comes to me against their will." The man nibbles his way along his ribcage. "I'm on holiday and want to enjoy myself." Smooth licks with that soft tongue. "If at any point you're done playing, you're free to leave and I'll seek company elsewhere." A soft kiss at his solar plexus. "No questions." A nip at his belly. "No doubts." He is going to die of pleasure. "No second guesses." Strong hands at the backs of his thighs keep him upright or he'd collapse like a folding chair. 

"Whatever you ask for," Aramis continues, "if it's in my power to grant, I will, but we part at dawn." Aramis looks up at him, fingertip tracing the top edge of his trousers. "I can only give you one night."

A prompt. That was a prompt for his consent. Now he just needs to be able to remember how to speak.

"Is that acceptable to you, my lovely?" Aramis asks.

"Yes." If Aramis keeps this up, he won't even make it to naked before he comes.  
(Please let him be able to hold out.) As it is, he bites his lip to keep from panting. Fumbles at Aramis's bare shoulders for some kind of handhold. "Yes, please. Yes."

He loses his ability to breathe right when Aramis begins to unlace his trousers. One...  
Painstaking... Eyelet... At... A... Time... Aramis covers his belly with searing kisses. (Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, he's doing this. He's really doing this.)

Aramis dips his tongue at his navel. Tastes. Savours with the same patient enjoyment he gave the champagne. (We have all night if you want.) Caresses slowly down the backs of his legs.

(Stop please don't stop. Stop please don't stop don't know how much more I can...)

Aramis unlaces and unbuckles Ianto's boots, caressing his lower belly with mouth and that expressive tongue. Ianto clings to him. Catches his fingers in that lovely wave of blond hair. Manages to hold it together until Aramis has his boots off.

But when Aramis caresses the bare arch of his foot, his body has had all it can take. He comes, shuddering, hands fisting in Aramis's hair, cock still trapped under leather.

(Someone please kill me right now.)

"I'm sorry," he manages when he's able to speak again. "I'm so sorry. I..."

Aramis chuckles knowingly. "Foot fetish?"

Now this gorgeous stranger thinks he's a freak. Fan-fucking-tastic. "No. I just-- I'm sorry, sir. I'm really sorry."

Aramis's eyes are equal parts grey and warm blue. "How old are you, darling?"

Think. He has to think. Think and stand. Standing would be good. Have to not collapse even as the warm buzz of afterglow seeps through every fibre of his being. (Aramis could have had anyone and he chose you. Now, after having it handed to you, you go and fuck this up too.) He swallows hard. "Eigh-- eighteen. I mean, I'm old enough."

Aramis resumes his casual caress of Ianto's instep. "I'm your first man, aren't I?"

Shit, he just came too soon and now this beautiful stranger's going to send him packing with a pat on the head, an ice lolly, and a note for his mum. "I'm old enough."

"No one ever said you weren't," Aramis assures him smoothly. "Now tell the truth, darling. Am I your first?"

It is impossible to lie to this guy. He nods mutely.

Aramis shrugs. "Then I wouldn't worry." He stands, eyes deep. One eloquent hand caresses Ianto's now-soft crotch. "Happens to the best of us. Young man like you should recover in a few minutes."

And it's a good thing Aramis's already holding him, or he might've collapsed with relief. (This might actually still be happening.) Aramis's mouth is hot and hungry at his shoulder. He begins to relax into the touch. (He could use a tissue or three to clean up the mess down below, but other than that, he now feels oddly better.)

Hot breath whispers past his ear. "Of course I still want you, you lovely thing."

He clings to this amazing stranger. Snogs him hard and deep.

Humming his pleasure, Aramis kisses his way back down Ianto's chest. Peels him out of the leather trousers. Slides them over his hips. Worships him with a dozen little kisses and caresses. Slides his pants down carefully. And to his utter delight (and genuine startlement) laps him clean, beginning at one hip, moving to the other, and suckling gently at his still-soft cock.

It feels so good his knees buckle. Aramis catches him. Eases him gracefully to the bed. Strips him the rest of the way. Smiling, he draws Ianto's glans into his mouth. Rolls him on his tongue.

He writhes. Curses. Begs for more. Gasps as the pleasure rolls him again. "Aramis!"

The man very reluctantly pulls away. "I'm sorry?"

Shit, he's making a mess of everything. "I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

Lucky for him the beautiful stranger is smiling. "Did you just call me 'Aramis'?"

Maybe he's not completely lost. "Erm. Yes?"

Aramis laughs, delighted. "As in the third Musketeer? The broken-hearted man of letters? Self-styled religious man?"

"Erm. Yes?" Thank god the man seems to take it as the compliment he intended.

Aramis's look deepens into something that goes beyond amusement. "You really are a sweet boy, aren't you, darling?"

The patronizing edge to the affection pricks his ego. He rolls them over so he's on top. Grabs Aramis's wrists. Pins him to the bed. "I'm not a boy." 

Aramis grins. "And thank God for that."

 _He's really doing this_. Jack sits in the SUV, staring at the readings on the device in his hand. No doubt about it, John is on the fifth floor of the Landmark Hotel. No way to be sure Jones is up there too, but everything would seem to point to it.

He should go kick in the door. He should take the sonic blaster (or "squareness gun" as Rose so quaintly termed it) and blast a quadrangular hole in the hotel room wall. He should seize poor Ianto from whatever depraved pleasures his ex can inflict. (And, having been on both the giving AND receiving end of such depraved pleasures, Jack knows what he's talking about.)

And he will ride to Jones's rescue... just...in a minute...

John's probably shagging the boy within an inch of his sanity. (Oh, those were the days.) Even as Jack struggles to remain detached, his body remembers. Remembers John. Remembers being loved. Remembers belonging to someone. Psychopath though his ex may be, there's nothing false about the depth of John's sincerity when it comes to expressing his emotions.

(I should never have left you, honey.)

He banishes that thought before it can fester. John's probably giving Jones the shag of his life, and Jack -- his self-styled protector -- can't bring himself to intervene. The problem is that Kim is right about John; as much trouble as that lunatic has caused him personally, Jack can't think of a single lover who ever went away with anything other than a smile and a really amazing story to tell.

And after all the shit that Jones has been through, doesn't he deserve to be happy, even if only for a few hours?

Jack lives for the few hours of happiness he gets. This curse of life means that stolen bits of happiness are the only thing keeping him sane. And knowing Jones is safe makes him happy. He cares about the boy. Always has. The boy's like him -- the victim of a bizarre gift. Unable to control it. Unable to stop it. Thrust into dangerous situations because of it. Jones deserves to be safe and protected. (And loved.) And though John will never be "safe", God help anyone who earns his vengeance.

(God, I miss you, honey. I should never have left you. We were mad and reckless and you constantly pissed me off, but you were also the best friend and lover I've ever had. Partner in crime in every sense of the phrase.)

So what about Jones? He's just the kind of person John would fall for -- bright, funny, sweet, educated, pretty, and more than a little morally flexible.

Shit, the corset is strangling him. His duty is strangling him. His sense of honour is strangling him. This whole damn place and backwards era are strangling him. Irrationally, he misses the Victorian and Edwardian eras, where he could be the oddity. The conversation piece. The guilty pleasure that even the straightest-laced could enjoy. 

Now his experiences in the rave have taught him he's not even that strange anymore. He blended right in. And even in this outrageous guise, he felt more normal than he has in decades.

What if Ianto blends just as smoothly into John's world?

Crazy. That's crazy. But for one brief moment Jack considers letting the kid go. If he and his psychopath of an ex are as much alike as it galls him to think they are, then John may see the same things in that brilliant, sweet, shy boy that Jack does. (And so pretty. Not until tonight did he realize Jones has such beautiful, soulful eyes.)

Dammit, stop thinking that. Okay, if he lets John take Jones, it solves his problem -- Ianto will be out of Yvonne's hair. Would it be so wrong to let him go?

(Yes, oh yes. Please don't take Ianto from me. The one thing...)

And he steps on that thought right away and kills it. He's known about Ianto Jones since the kid first got on Torchwood 3's radar six years ago. He's been Jones's self-appointed protector as soon as he found out that his boss had no problem RetConning a teenager. He's fought for Jones's right to live as normal a life as he can because he himself knows his own chance for a normal life ended when Torchwood recruited him.

But what if "normal" isn't what Ianto wants? 

No. This is insane. Even if Jones has a fetish for all the weirdness that is John's home time, there's no way Jack can abandon an eighteen-year-old primitive to the Machiavellian madness that is Serenissima’s society. Have to keep in mind that John is the SANE one of his family. The WHITE sheep. The do-gooder. And his homeworld...?

Jack shudders to think of Serenissima. Okay, he can't abandon the kid to that. He just can't. So he does the only thing he can do.

He calls Yvonne to plead for the life of Ianto Jones.

 _He's really doing this_. John's gorgeous boy is stripping him bare. The night just got exponentially better. And if Byron's a bit uncertain one minute and almost overwhelming the next, John can forgive him. (One thing's for sure -- Byron's a fast learner. Good thing John's got the body mods or he'd come in his pants too.)

He doesn't even have to help the kid when he bends to take off John's boots. (That's a first.) This kid is either a history junkie or he has some kind of background with historical costume. Either way it's the weirdest turn-on John's discovered since his heartless ex made household cleansers into aphrodisiacs.

Byron bends over his hips. Darts a lick across his glans. John moans approval. Byron draws him deeply. Moves with surprising confidence. (Okay, maybe NOT such a virgin after all.) Works him with skill all out of proportion to his age. (Oh, GOD, darling! Yes! Do that!)

He stops the kid before he can come, though. Pulls him up and into his arms. Snogs him with a sincerity he doesn't have to fake. Presses him back to the mattress. He loves all of his conquests, but this boy both delights and terrifies him. Too young. Too gorgeous. Too perceptive. Too risky. Too smart for his own good.

And for all he's writhing beneath him, John can feel that conflict rising again, the tension in Byron's muscles. When he pulls back a little to reassure him, his pretty little Goth misunderstands. Turns over, no doubt expecting to be unceremoniously mounted.

John (mentally swearing a blue streak at whatever bastard convinced Byron that all men are brutes) caresses down his back instead, savouring every millimetre of that beautiful white skin. (Pretty as a girl's, for all that the kid is built like a distance runner.)

Byron turns uncertain and slightly wounded eyes to him. "D-don't you want...?"

"To fuck you senseless?" John supplies. He nods slowly. "We'll get there, darling, but I think you deserve a little better treatment than just a simple grab and thrust."

Uncertainty wars with curiosity in those pretty pale eyes. "What... What do I deserve?"

John strokes downward. Ghosts his fingers over the lovely cleft of Byron's arse. Waits for him to relax. Slips his hand lower. Caresses up from the base of Byron's sac. Up along the sensitive skin of the perineum. Teasing. Testing. Waiting.

Byron doesn't disappoint. Presses into the touch, breathless. Rests on his forearms, hands clasped. Parts his knees a little. Turns startled eyes to him.

He smiles slowly and lazily. Strokes upwards. Lingers. Traces the sensitive skin right at the edge of the opening.

Byron bows his head, panting.

"Turn over, darling," John murmurs.

 _It's perfect, just perfect._ Ianto's heart is pounding again as he rolls onto his back. Aramis kisses him deeply, that wonderful hand back between his legs. Stroking down from his sac. Caressing the sensitive places. Teasing.

"I'm going to bring you again," says Aramis quietly. "To help you relax."

Again, he can't have heard him right. "You're going to what?"

"Bring you," says Aramis as though it's the simplest thing in the world. (Who IS this guy?) "Make you come again. You're too tense right now -- I'd be afraid of hurting you." Aramis rummages something out of the drawer in the bedside table. Kisses him. Slips his hand low again. 

A soft, smooth little thing slips inside him. He gasps as wave upon wave of heat and pleasure radiate outward, as though his groin is the sounding board of some greater instrument. He writhes. Moans. (Oh, GOD, that's good!)

"Therinian Lubricant," Aramis says by way of explanation. "My personal favourite."

And just as Ianto thinks he might come again just from the flood of hot bliss, Aramis's searing mouth descends upon his cock. Draws him deep. Deeper. Pulls desperate, incoherent sounds from him.

A fingertip teases lower. Lower. Brushes the opening. When he looks down, Aramis silently asks permission. 

He nods as vigorously as he can.

The first finger slips inside. He cries out. Thrusts up into Aramis's hot, hot mouth. Loses his voice to pleasure. Aramis moves his finger expertly. Finds just the right spot. Ianto begs. Sobs. And hard as he moves in that wet heat, Aramis takes everything easily. One finger becomes two. Two fingers become three. He catches Aramis's head in his hands. Thrusts harder still. Aramis hums his pleasure. Fucks harder and deeper with his hand. (Yes! Yes! Yes! Never knew you could...!)

He lets go of Aramis's hair -- if he pulls too much harder he might rip out handfuls. Instead, he tangles his hands in the duvet. Rocks harder and harder onto Aramis's hand. Thrusts up again and again into Aramis's mouth. (Just the right suction, GOD he's in heaven!)

Ianto comes screaming. 

Aramis drinks him down. Takes him higher and higher with a few more expert strokes of his hand. Stars dance across Ianto's vision. He surrenders to pleasure, dazed and awed.

(So this is what it's meant to be like...)

Aramis gives him one more parting lick. Ianto trembles violently with the most fantastic aftershocks. Aramis stretches out beside him. Gathers him into his arms. Strokes his hair as Ianto clings to him and tries to remember how to breathe. (I love you. I love you. I love you for this. Thank you for this.)

"Better?" Aramis asks softly.

His voice still doesn't work for shit, so he nods instead. Kisses Aramis with a gratitude that defies words. And suddenly the tears spill over. His body seems to go haywire, shuddering as if he's exhausted, yet he feels giddy with relief. Soon, he's a weeping mess.

And Aramis kisses him. Holds him. Croons reassurance. Lets him just feel and be and eventually recover.

(Whoever you are, I love you madly for this.)

"It's all right, darling," Aramis murmurs. "You're safe."

" _It's perfect, just perfect,_ " Jack insists.

"It is NOT perfect, Jack," says Yvonne's irritated voice in the earpiece. (Good thing the woman never sleeps so he didn't annoy her with the late-night call.) "I can't just leave him."

"Who said anything about leaving him?" Yvonne is being surprisingly resistant to his charm.

"You did," says the annoyed voice. "You want me to just -- what? -- forget he ever existed?"

"I want you to let him self-destruct a little." Jack shifts, annoyed both at the convenient lie and the length of this conversation. (Make me sit here much longer, Yvonne, and my other arse cheek will fall asleep. Sexy or not, I am REALLY starting to hate this corset.) "Jones is attracted to temporal anomalies, but he's also almost an adult. Let him be your unwitting bloodhound. Use him to find alien tech and major events."

"What if he sees us, Jack? I thought you had a hard-on for the kid that prevents you from RetConning him like you should."

Jack refuses to rise to the bait. "So he sees you. So what? Let him. He'll rationalize it at first like every normal person does. See what he thinks was there. But sooner or later he'll have to learn how to deal with what he is."

"And what is he, Jack?"

(One of the most amazing people I've encountered in almost two centuries of living.) "He's an exception to the rules. So choose your time. Choose your team. Show yourselves to him when you feel he's ready. The kid is brilliant, Yvonne, and he's kidding himself if he thinks he can pass for normal. Ignore him for now. Either he'll blend back into society and you won't have to worry about him, or he'll seek you out and you'll recruit him."

"There are no openings for Ianto Jones in Torchwood 1."

Jack chuckles. "A boy with a genius IQ, a photographic memory, perfect sense of direction, and a sixth sense for temporal anomalies? Yeah, he'd be a real burden." (And God is it going to kill me to lose him.)

Another long pause. "You'll have to do something for me, Captain Harkness."

He knew this was coming; Yvonne is all about the Devil's Bargain. "I'm listening."

"You go back to Cardiff and stay there until I call you."

It takes him a minute to realize how lightly he's getting off. "That's all?"

"Or you keep being nosy and I kill the kid."

No-brainer there. "Cardiff it is." She's up to something, though. "For how long?"

"Until I call you." The voice has gone cold again. "Don't piss me off, Jack. Immortality can be a really fucking long time when you piss me off."

Again, he refuses to rise to the bait. "I would never try to piss you off, Yvonne."

There is a tense moment where he waits, breathless, for her reply.

"Then we have a deal," Yvonne says at last. "Your boy gets to live."

He collapses back against the seat back in relief. "Thank you, Yvonne."

She hangs up on him, petulant to the last. But he's not bothered, because now all he needs is the sonic blaster and the chance to talk to Jones. Maybe his solution isn't the best one, but at least Ianto will have the chance to be something other than Torchwood's pawn.

If only those two evil bitches had extended him the same courtesy.

 _It's perfect, just perfect._ John's dear sweet little virgin shivers in his arms, settling into the afterglow of what was quite probably his first full-body orgasm. (God, he's good.) Byron is exquisite not only in his exuberance, but in the mute wonder he shows afterward, when pleasure has robbed him of his voice.

He kisses away Byron's tears. Rolls the last tastes of his lover on his tongue. It's been a long time since he enjoyed sex this much. (And they haven't even gotten to the best part yet.)

After a bit of a rest to recover his composure, Byron seeks his mouth. Kisses him with a beautiful combination of joy, gratitude, and a bit of rekindling lust.

He smiles at the greedy little hedonist he's had the good fortune to lure to his bed. "Ready for round two, are we?"

Byron answers him by curling strong fingers around his cock. Stroking him. He even adds a delicious little twist at the end. (Naughty, naughty thing! Ohhhhh. You've done this before, my love!)

He snags a pillow or two for Byron to lean on. "On your knees, darling."

Byron obeys, shivering again with a mix of anticipation and a little fear. John caresses up his back. Down again. Takes his place behind the beautiful boy. Parts his knees gently.

"Slow to start, my love," he assures him. "Deeper as you can take it."

He guides his cock to the entrance. Presses forward gently. Slips just the head inside.

Byron moans. Before John can ask if he's all right, his lovely boy presses back. Draws him much deeper. (Ohhhhhhhhhhh. Hot and slick and ready.)

John shifts gently, testing. Byron meets him halfway. Moves with him. Parts his knees a little more. (And aren't you gorgeous?) Byron moans and curses and grips him so sweetly it's all John can do to hold back. (Not yet, darling. Don't want to come in you yet.)

He nudges Byron's knees a little farther apart with his own. Slides under a bit more. Pulls Byron up and onto his lap. Wraps his arms around him to hold him in place. Presses his lover to his chest. (Mine, lover. You're mine.) Waits for Byron to signal his readiness by moving on him. Thrusts up as Byron grinds down.

"Open your eyes, darling," he says softly.

A ripple of tension runs through his lovely boy when Byron obeys. On the wall at the foot of the bed is a rather splendidly-framed mirror. In it, Byron moves in his arms, gorgeous and debauched. Knees wide. Exquisitely impaled on his cock.

He spreads his hand low on Byron's groin. "What do you see, my lovely?"

Byron looks down and away, self-conscious. "Nothing worth looking at."

He may well have to kill whoever hurt this gorgeous creature. John moves, gently at first, then more deeply. (Do you feel that, darling? THAT is how much I want you.) Byron's face clears of everything but desire. Wonder. Pleasure.

"Look again," John says. "That is a gorgeous young man in the arms of someone who wants him."

"It's... it's just me." But the eyes in the reflection lock with his.

John curls a hand around Byron's cock, which exceeds all expectation by beginning to harden. (Ah, to be eighteen again.) He slows his thrusts. Strokes that gorgeous cock in time with each. Moves faster. Harder.

Byron sobs. Reaches behind him. Catches John's hips. Encourages him.

"Nipples, darling."

Byron reaches shaking hands up. Rolls his own nipples between fingers and thumbs.

"Pinch," John prompts. "Pull."

Byron's internal muscles ripple as he obeys. John shags him a little harder still.

"Look again," John says. Byron obeys without hesitation. "That is beauty." He chuckles. "I could fuck that beautiful creature all night and never get tired."

"I... I..." Byron's stammer dissolves in a wordless cry of pleasure. "I wouldn't mind."

He catches Byron's right hand. Slides it low to cup his lover's balls.

"Roll them, darling," he purrs. "Slowly."

Byron shudders, his internal muscles tightening sweetly on John's cock.

It's all he can do to stay in control. He seizes Byron's left hand. Curls it around that lovely cock of his. "A little twist at the end if you like, darling. Like what you did with me."

He punctuates every slide of Byron's hand with an upward thrust. Rocks him hard. Harder. And his beautiful lover catches the rhythm. Makes a noise of pleasure deep in his throat. Sighs. Whispers. Watches himself and John moving together in the mirror.

Byron is just as gorgeous on the inside -- hot and tight, his internal muscles rippling along John's cock. He takes Byron's hips in both hands. Thrusts up and in. Faster. Harder. Holds him close, one hand low at his belly. Savours the sweat between them. 

"Please," Byron whispers. "Please."

He offers Byron the fingers of his right hand. Watches in the mirror as his lover draws them deep. Suckles them. Rolls them on his tongue. Thrusts up into his own fist and down onto John's cock.

Perfection. Absolute perfection. Breathless, John obeys an impulse he's never had.

"John," he murmurs. "My name is John Hart."

"Ianto," Byron gasps around his fingers. "Ianto Jones."

"Ianto." The name tastes good in his mouth. "Well," he says as he continues to build up to what promises to be one of the best orgasms he's ever had, "I feel it only fair to warn you, my gorgeous boy, that I come more than once."

"What?"

"I come twice." And this one promises to be soon. Shivers of ecstasy are already running through him. "Quirk of my biology." He kisses. Licks. Sighs a breath across Ianto's ear. "Look at yourself, Ianto Jones."

Ianto's eyes are deep in the mirror's reflection. Confident. Passionate. Hungry. All the things that make John just want to claim him more. He buries himself as deep as he'll go with every stroke. Byron's eyes go wide with surprise. Close in pleasure. And all the while, that beautiful hand strokes that even more beautiful cock.

"This," he murmurs in Ianto's ear. "Is what it looks like to be beautifully fucked."

Ianto tips his head back. Seeks his lips. And that beautiful kiss is what brings him. He pulls away just long enough to grab Ianto's hips. Thrusts up. Cries out as pleasure consumes him.

Ianto's hand moves fitfully. Jets of come spill across the duvet. 

_He feels a strange calm_. For one moment of bliss, Ianto surrenders completely as John holds him. Presses his hips to Ianto's. Fills him. Breathes in time with him. Revels in this perfect moment. (John may well have spoilt him for anyone else.)

John gently pulls his head back. Kisses him deeply. Holds him tight, arms fierce around him. "Beautiful... So beautiful..."

(I love you for this. John, I love you for this.)

"You said..." Ianto swallows hard. "...come twice?" Might be the death of him, but what a way to go.

John chuckles, breath warm across his ear. "Greedy."

"Apparently," he says, though he can't bring himself to feel even a modicum of guilt. "Can you?"

John presses up to show him how much he can. (Wow. This guy really isn't normal.) "How do you want it this time, my love?"

"You've watched me," his voice is calmer now. He's calmer now. His whole body thrums with pleasure and joy and anticipation. "I want to watch you." 

John presses a kiss behind his ear. "As you wish, my lovely."

John slides out from underneath him. Turns him gently onto his back. Slides a pillow under his arse. Pulls his hips up. Wraps his legs around his waist. Angles a still-very-hard cock just right. Slides in again.

Ianto moans. Smiles. Wraps his legs tighter. (Oh, it's even better now!) John slides against him. Within him. Smiles down at him, eyes sparkling with dark lust. Takes him with sure strokes.

"Do you like what you see?" John asks with a devilish half-smirk.

From those slender shoulders down that perfect chest to the abs that flex with every stroke to those perfect hips, rocking him so sweetly he swears he could go on all night. Every inch of John is perfect. Beautiful. Better than he could've dreamed. "Yes."

"Good." John moves faster. Harder. Pulls Ianto's legs up and out. Rocks him onto his back, his ankles at John's shoulders. Angles deeper. Waits a moment for him to nod his enthusiastic consent. Fucks him in earnest, every thrust of his hips sending shocks of pure pleasure through him.

It's even better the second time. Rougher, yet John slides even more smoothly inside. Ianto can take more of that exquisite cock. (Deeper. Yes, please. Let me feel it all!)

He builds. Builds. Builds more. "John." The name tastes good in his mouth. "John."

John bends over him. Savages his mouth. He kisses back, matching John's intensity. Catches John's hips. Encourages every thrust.

"Ianto." It begins as a whisper. 

He calls John's name in reply. 

A low, throaty moan. "Ianto."

Closer. Closer. He might well lose consciousness this time. "John."

And then John murmurs it again and again, Ianto's name interspersed with curses and prayers and exultations. And he can feel this beautiful man's pleasure, building to the near-pain of need. He cries out his own pleasure, uncaring about anything but needing. Being needed. Wanting. Being wanted.

Shudders grip them both. He claws John's back. Snogs him so savagely that for a moment he swears he might taste blood.

John plants both palms on the mattress. Arches down and into him once more, deeper than ever. Comes with a deep cry of pleasure. Ianto writhes in ecstasy. Clings to his hips. Revels in the bliss of John bringing them both.

"YES!"

His body appears to have turned to mush. He can't do much but collapse, boneless, as John withdraws. Flops down beside him, panting. Pulls him into his arms. Wraps his whole body around him, Ianto's back to his chest. He snuggles into the possessive embrace, a hum of pleasure soothing the back of his somewhat abused throat.

For a long time, there is only music and the sound of their breathing.

"Ianto," John says at last. "Lovely Ianto Jones. You were right, darling -- I am a time traveller." He kisses Ianto's temple. "I have only tonight here, in this time and place. After then, my love, I'm afraid I really must leave."

It hurts to think about. "So you said."

"No, darling." John kisses his temple. Pulls him closer. "Don't misunderstand me. I've changed my mind; when I go, I want you to come with me."

"What?" He holds his breath, hoping he heard what he thought he heard.

"Come with me," says John. "Be with me. I don't want to leave you behind."

He wraps John's arms tighter around him, warm and giddy and happy at the thought that he might get to keep this amazing man. "Where are we going?"

Tension releases in John's body. "Serenissima, for a start."

"La Serenissima?" He wracks his pleasure-drunk brain for the reference. "You mean Venice?"

"Serenissima," John corrects. "Where I'm from."

He smiles in spite of himself. "You're taking me home?"

John pauses for a moment. And for a moment, Ianto holds his breath.

"Yes," John says, nuzzling closer. "Yes, Ianto, I am." He wraps even more of his body around Ianto's, possessive in the good and warming kind of way. "Yes, my love, I am -- if you'll let me." John nibbles his earlobe, sending shivers of delight through him. "Will you let me?"

The sweet glow in the pit of his stomach can only be happiness. "I will."

Across the room, the doorknob disappears in a square beam of blue light.


	3. Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (In which Ianto's future depends on the truth, Jack's present allows him to tell the truth, and John's past leads him to rewrite the truth.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make my name on slash that walks right up to the line and spits over it. This is a little rough, even for me. But if you've been a fan until now -- and a whole heapin' lot of you have been -- you know that I don't do non-con. Ever. I get close, but there's a line I won't cross. That said, the gloves, and corsets, and skivvies, and boots, and everything else, are coming off. Enjoy the knife play. I know I did.

"Kyrie eleison  
Christe eleison  
Je ne dors plus (The time has come)  
Je te desire (The time has come)  
Prends-moi, je suis à toi  
Mea culpa  
Je veux aller au bout de mes fantasmes  
Je sais que c'est interdit  
Je suis folle, je m'abandonne  
Mea culpa...

"Je suis la, et ailleurs  
Je n'ai plus rien  
Je deviens folle, je m'abandonne  
Mea culpa  
Je ne dors plus  
Je te desire  
Prends-moi, je suis à toi...

"Je veux tout  
Quand tu veux, comme tu veux  
Mea culpa…"  
(Enigma)

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=itkzaT9yk9Y

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=BftpWMncEaA&feature=related

 

 _He feels a strange calm_ as the doorknob disappears in a square beam of blue light. Jack knows better than to kick the door in and give John a good target. Instead, he goes flat in with a roll-and-twist. With any luck, he'll have the chance to talk bef--

He dodges the pulse-pistol blast. (Narrowly.) Dives for cover behind a sumptuous chair. The corset jabs him in the ribs and hips. (Easy to forget how annoying restrictive clothing can be in a combat situation.) The chair rocks with the force of a second blast. And all the while, his brain is looping the glimpse of John crouched on the bed, one arm holding Ianto protectively behind him, the other aiming a pulse-pistol at Jack's head. (God, you're hot when you hunt.)

"Careful, honey," he calls. "You'll wreck the antiques."

"That's what deposits are for." Doesn't sound like John's forgiven or forgotten the circumstances of their last parting.

"I'm not here to fight you, John." (Especially with Jones flushed and sated beside you.)

The chair rocks with the force of yet another pulse-pistol blast. The air is thick with ozone and -- judging by the smell -- the upholstery is close to catching fire. 

"Should've thought of that before you sonicked the door," says John coldly. Another pulse-pistol blast, though it's clearly for intimidation and show -- to do so little damage to this chair, John must have the thing set on a pretty damn low level. Good chance he can talk his way out of this one. (Or shag. What he wouldn't give for a shag.) Even over the stench of barbecued velveteen, he catches a whiff of the cinnamon bliss of John's pheromones.

"The only reason we're talking at all," John continues, "is because I'm in too good a mood to kill you outright without giving you the chance to provoke me first."

Jones says something low and urgent. (And Jack needs to get himself under control if he's going to monitor a conversation on the other side of the room.)

"No, honey," John reassures the kid. (His lover. They're lovers now, tangled in sheets and drenched in sweat.) "I'm out of the killing business. Besides -- it makes too much of a mess and I'm on holiday. This overstuffed dumbass and I have a history is all."

Another low comment. 

John chuckles heartily. "I'll have to remember that, my love."

The chair is now definitely on fire. Here's hoping it's old enough to be slow-burning. "Ianto Jones," he calls. "Are you injured?"

Stunned silence, followed by John's hearty laughter.

"Are you KIDDING me, Jack?" says John. "Ianto's my GUEST!"

"Who are you?" The kid's voice is slightly hoarse, but clear.

He stands slowly, hands up. Unfortunately, the peace offering is spoilt when he has to knock the burning chair over and stamp it out.

"Cap- Captain CORSET?" says Ianto, eyes wide.

John grins with his signature glee, though his aim with the pulse-pistol doesn't waver. "Captain what?"

"HARKNESS," Jack snaps. With the furniture no longer on fire, he holsters the sonic blaster. Puts his hands back up in a gesture of submission. (Not noticing John's kiss-bruised lips. Not looking at the bite-marks on Jones's shoulder. Not thinking about anything but the mission.)

John warns him with a glare and a flick of the thumb that the proverbial phasers are no longer set on stun. Behind him, Jones eyes the pulse-pistol nervously. (Not that Jack blames him, poor kid.) 

"'Captain Corset'?" John prompts, eyes twinkling.

Jones colours prettily and shrugs. "He was at the rave. Word got around."

It's very hard to maintain one's professional demeanour when one's ex dissolves into peals of laughter. It's even harder to look non-threatening when said ex laughs so hard that his aim goes all to shit, though he's too much of a soldier to just drop the pistol.

"I came here to talk." John may not be in a mood to be reasonable, but that doesn't excuse--

He freezes mid-step. John has the pistol levelled at him again. "It wasn't that funny."

"Okay, okay, fine." He'll have to do this the hard way. "Look. Peace offering." He sets the sonic blaster to "reverse". Sonics the knob assembly back onto the door. Shuts it to demonstrate it's all better.

Jones peers over John's shoulder. "Oooh."

"Sonic blaster," says John. "If you like them, darling, we'll get you one when we go home. Though be forewarned -- they eat batteries like Augustus Gloop eats Wonka Bars." He vaporizes what's left of the scorched chair when Jack moves to take a step forward. "You want to talk, Jack? Talk. Oh, and while you're at it, strip."

Not sure who's more stunned: him or Jones. "What?"

John gives an easy shrug. "First rule of interrogation, Ianto darling: never pass up the opportunity for a floor show. Besides, a naked enemy is easier to manage, and I want to know what he's hiding beneath that lovely ensemble."

(He's starting to be nostalgic for the conversation with Yvonne.)

"But..." Jones stammers, "but... I'm not interested in him."

"Neither am I." Though John's eyes are a little too veiled, his body language is too deliberately neutral for him to be completely convincing. "I just like to torture him, especially after such a rude entrance." John pitches his voice to carry. "And that was a rude entrance, Captain Corset, even for you. Have you never heard of knocking, or were you just born in a backwater outworlder colony?"

His return glare only makes John's grin wider. 

John arches an eyebrow. "For someone desperate enough to talk that he's willing to get shot at, Jack, I don't hear much flapping of lips."

Sparring with John is pointless. He looks to Jones. "You've been losing time."

Jones tenses visibly. 

John's arm tightens protectively around him. "Well isn't he the master of tact?" He gestures with the pulse-pistol. "Off with those trousers, you."

"Erm," says Jones to him with the shadow of a shy smile. "For what it's worth, sir, I like that cut on you."

"Thank you." Annoyed, Jack undoes his belt. "I know you've been losing time because I know who's been taking those hours from you."

He expected John to be upset, but wasn't prepared for the sheer blind fury in those grey-blue eyes. "You've been RETCONNING a TEENAGER?" 

He dodges a blast, which vaporizes the settee behind him. Glares at John. "Would you STOP that?"

"Do you KNOW what RetCon does during the developmental stages of this era of human?" John demands.

"Erm," says Jones quietly. "What's RetCon?"

He can't stand the heat of John's glare. 

"It's a drug," he confesses. "Designed to rewrite memories. To make you forget."

John rolls his eyes. "Think roofies, my love, only more insidious because the victim is rendered extremely susceptible to suggestion. Unlike rohypnol, the people who carry RetCon usually use it to mind-fuck rather than to commit normal rape. The victim wakes up with his perception of events all shot to hell." John aims at Jack's head. "Shall I dispatch him for you?"

"I'd rather you put the gun -- or whatever that thing is -- down," says Jones with surprising calm. At John's questioning look, he elaborates, "Interrogation, yeah? I'll never find out anything if you shoot him."

John considers. "Can I shoot him once you have your intel?"

"Can I reserve judgement based on what he says?" says Ianto.

"Prudent." John nods, pleased. He glares at Jack. "Who told you to stop stripping, Captain Corset?"

With a sigh, he begins to unfasten his trousers.

Jones watches him with wary eyes. "Are you full of shite, sir, or do you really know what's been happening to me?"

"The people who've been drugging you with RetCon are called 'Torchwood'." Damn this zipper -- it was a pain in the ass to get on and it's now sticking. "It's a secret organisation --outside the government, beyond the police. They find aliens, track down tech, monitor rifts in time, and basically make sure people continue to believe the world is a very boring place."

"What's that got to do with me?" says Jones.

"You like to walk at night," he says.

John arches an eyebrow. "Do you have any concept of how creepy that sounds?" 

"He does like to walk at night." What is it about John that makes him so defensive? "And when Ianto walks, he has a sixth sense that somehow makes him home in on unusual events. Torchwood deals with unusual events. They usually try to deal with unusual events discreetly. They don't trust Ianto to be able to deal with what he sees, so they RetCon him to make sure he can't remember what he witnesses."

Jones blinks at the epiphany. (That's right, honey. You're not going mad. I'm just sorry I couldn't tell you sooner.)

And dammit, no matter how he contorts, he can't reach his boots. Even when he puts a foot up on the non-scorched chair, the corset just digs harder into his hip. Steals his breath. Makes it impossible to bend past a certain point.

Add to his humiliation that Jones and John are watching him with matching looks of amusement.

Really irritated, he stretches too far. Overbalances. Flounders, trying to remain upright. His foot slips off the chair. His unfastened trousers fall. Tangle around his ankles. He lands in a heap. Cracks his head on the floor.

John HOWLS. (Well, at least the bastard will be laughing too hard to shoot straight.)

"Captain!" Despite the cry, the kid sounds like he's trying not to laugh, even as John guffaws. "Are you all right, sir?"

"No." That wasn't supposed to sound pathetic. He starts to laugh in spite of himself. "I've fallen..." The full ridiculousness of being held hostage by lingerie catches up to him. "I've fallen... and I can't get up."

Even Ianto joins in the laugh at Jack's expense.

"Bollocks." John, pistol still in hand, wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. Kisses Jones, reassuring. "You want to give our poor Captain Corset a hand there, my love?"

Nodding, Jones slips out of bed. Wraps himself in a handy robe. He's unsteady on his feet, though Jack notes miserably that it's more likely due to a fantastic shag than to any other form of intoxication.

As a gesture of submission, he keeps his hands visible. Lets Jones unlace and slip off his boots. Untangle him from his trousers. He smiles his gratitude. (Though this would all be so much easier if every movement didn't remind me of how little you're wearing under that robe, honey.)

"Just tell me you haven't been RetConning the kid," says John. He's watching them with veiled, calculating eyes.

"On my honour--"

"Such as it is," John says.

He glares again. "On my honour I swear I've been doing everything I can to keep Ianto safe from Torchwood."

Jones tosses Jack's trousers and boots aside. "Is Torchwood from Serenissima?'

He blinks. Stares at John. "You told him about Serenissima?"

John shrugs. "Mentioned it in passing." He pats the pistol in his lap. "Now answer Ianto's questions like a good boy."

"Serenissima is John's homeworld." It's actually kind of a relief to suddenly confess all this to Jones after so many years of secrecy -- it's been so long since he was able to talk about who he really is and what he really does.

Jones looks at John, alarmed. "He's an alien?"

"Human." He sets a calming hand on Jones's arm. "In his time, humans have many colonies far from Earth."

Jones's eyes are guarded. "Let me see your weapon, sir."

Jack draws the sonic blaster. Hands it to Jones, butt first. "It's more tool than weapon."

Jones inspects it with an expert eye. Pales as he turns the tangible proof in his hands. 

"Lovely bit of tech, isn't it?" says John. "Though that particular model is out of circulation thanks to a certain Time Lord, where you and I are going, this is what you can expect for modern hardware."

"So," Jones tries and fails to make it a joke. "You get shot at a lot?"

It's been a long time since he saw such a haunted look in John's eyes. "Now and then."

Jones sits heavily. He turns the blaster over again. Looks at it more closely as though it might unlock all the secrets of the universe. And whatever he sees in it makes him smile as though he's just found out there really is a Father Christmas. He looks at John. "Would I fit in? Where you're from?"

John beams. "I believe you would."

He crouches beside the kid to distract him from John's seduction. "John's world is all narrow escapes and high adventures, which only sounds like fun until you realize this isn't a game and you don't have three lives to spend."

Jones stands, face set. Aims the blaster. Digitizes the chair he was sitting on a moment ago. Reverses the settings. Re-materializes the thing. "I'll manage." 

John makes a sound of pure lust. 

Jones doesn't look back at his lover, but the hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He points the weapon at Jack. "Torchwood? You were saying?"

Jack swallows hard. Puts his hands up again. "Torchwood is Earth-based, and contemporaneous to this time. And though they do good work, Ianto, I am sorry for what they've done to you."

Jones looks at him with what he could swear is x-ray vision. Likes whatever he sees. Sets the blaster aside. "And what is that, sir?"

They're the same height. Not sure why it strikes him funny, but it does. Something odd about being able to look Jones straight in the eyes. (Lovely eyes. Pale blue eyes so... FOCUS, Jack.) "They robbed you of time. Memories. You have to believe me when I tell you I know what that's like."

Jones scans his face as if looking for traces of those lost memories. "You're telling me that I know you."

He nods. "I've been trying to help you, but the organisation is a bit brutal right now."

"RetCon first, ask questions later?" says Jones.

He smiles with grim humour. "More like RetCon first, don't ask questions at all."

Jones touches his cheek, testing. "I thought you were a dream."

"He gets that a lot," scoffs John. "Hence the ego."

"No," says Jones. "I mean... You're just like the man I thought I imagined. When I was a child."

(You're still so young, honey, and that only makes me want to protect you more.) He struggles against emotion to focus. "When I first learnt what was happening to you, I was just another field operative. Acting under orders. But things have changed. I'm running things now, at least in my part of the world, and you have my word that I will do everything in my power to make sure no harm comes to you."

His eyes fall closed as Jones's fingertips brush over his mouth.

"So..." Jones sounds like the wounded kid he is. "So... I'm not going mad?"

He kisses the fingertips. "No, honey. There's nothing wrong with you. Never has been."

Jones pulls his hand back, eyes veiled. "Why are you here, Captain?"

He's suddenly not sure. "I just... I've been..."

"Waiting for you to get old enough that I could shag you into the mattress with a clear conscience?" says John.

He and Jones throw him matching glares.

"What?" John lounges on the pillows, pulse pistol on his lap, unrepentant and rather splendidly naked. "Don't tell me you weren't thinking it, Ianto darling. You're too smart to just take everything this man says on faith."

Jones smiles. "Did you still want him to strip?"

His ex considers him with cool blue-grey eyes. The gaze goes straight to Jack's groin as John gives him a slow, dangerous smile.

A high blush colours Jones's cheeks, but he's smiling when he turns back. "I think that means yes."

He doesn't have to fake the relief. "I could really use out of this corset."

Ianto's hands are trembling, which kind of helps, because Jack himself is in unfamiliar emotional territory. He does the occasional night out. He's slept with the occasional co-worker. He's definitely guilty of fraternizing, in all its many forms. But Ianto is different. He feels like he's known him forever. And somewhere behind that fog of RetCon, Ianto knows more about his life than almost any other human being living.

The phone rings. John, startled, draws the pulse pistol from his lap. Has to pull up short to avoid vaporizing the phone. He answers it, annoyed. Rolls his eyes. "No, sir. No trouble. Telly's too loud is all." John holds up the pulse pistol. Tucks it pointedly in what is probably a holster between headboard and mattress. "There. That should be better. Apologies. Thank you, goodnight." John hangs up the phone. Folds his arms. Looks pointedly at him and Jones.

There are times Jack truly prefers the company of men.

Ianto's fingertips brush his shoulder. It's not overtly sexual -- the corset is a complicated contraption involving a good half-dozen buckles, a row of hooks-and-eyes, and several sets of laces. (Fits damn nicely, too. He'll have to thank Owen later.) Ianto's touch is gentle. Competent. Exploratory. And oddly maddening, because not until this moment has he been willing to admit what he really felt for this remarkable young man.

Jones says nothing, which is both a relief and a frustration. The tension between them builds until unspoken words weigh Jack's tongue down like stones. (I love and care about you. I'm sorry for my part in what's happened to you. I'm not asking you for anything, though I want to give you everything.)

He moans with relief when the pressure of the boning finally releases. Draws a few deep breaths. Stretches happily as Ianto peels him out of the vinyl.

And now he's mostly-naked in front of Ianto. It's been a long time since he felt so exposed. It's like John fried all his confidence while taking pot-shots at the furniture. (Though the air-handling system is excellent -- barely a trace of smoke lingers in the room.)

Jones glances back at John, probably seeking permission.

John chuckles. "Overstuffed dumbass aside, he IS fantastic in bed."

"Thank you, honey," he retorts, sarcasm dripping. "I love you too."

"I should be so lucky."

But Jack has to remember how to breathe when Ianto touches his chest through the fine mesh of the shirt. The warm hand derails every thought. Emotions Jack hasn't been willing or able to deal with roil to the surface.

"What will you do," Ianto asks, though Jack can't be sure if he's talking to John or to him, "if I kiss him?"

 _He feels a strange calm_ as Ianto's question hangs in the air. John's beautiful new lover has proven just as flexible, adaptable, and interesting as he'd hoped. (Even with body mods, he wouldn't have expected to be capable of another round this quickly, but the sight of Ianto undressing his heartless ex...? It's been ages since anyone other than him left Jack flushed and wanting.)

John moistens his lips. Chooses his words carefully. "I think, my love, that you should find out for yourself."

His young lover darts him another uncertain look, mutely asking permission a second time. (Fuck no, I won't be angry, darling. Jack and I will sort ourselves later. If he's what you want, I would LOVE to introduce you to that pleasure.)

Ianto gives him the sweet, shy smile that makes his heart (and now other things) go pitter-pat. Turns to Jack. Gently kisses him.

Jack makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat.

It really is one of the lovelier things he's seen in quite some time. "More deeply," he says.

Ianto pulls Jack into a deeper kiss. Presses his body close. At first, Jack stands stiffly, almost as though he's forgotten how to do anything else.

"He wants it," John whispers. Not sure which one he's talking to, and even less sure that it matters.

Ianto rubs Jack's back with strong, sensitive fingers. (Jack, you lucky bastard.) Jack unfreezes. Cups the beautiful boy's face in his hands. Caresses Ianto's mouth with slow, confident, graceful movements of his lips.

Ianto moans approval.

And Jack, being not only a dumbass, but a dumbass with inconvenient morals, pulls back. "I shouldn't."

"You should," John says.

"Don't..." Ianto fights the stammer. "D-don't you want to?" 

John may have to kill him if he's flustered the poor shy boy after he made such a lovely overture. "Of course he wants to, darling," he says. "Judging by the poleaxed look on Captain Corset's face, he's already in love with you. Now shut him up before he can say anything else stupid."

He waits until Ianto begins to kiss Jack again, then slips out of bed.

Ianto pulls back from the kiss, though this time Jack moves in, trailing kisses down his throat. "John?"

"If we're going to play some more," he says, "I'll need a shower." Much as he enjoys teasing Jack, there are some things that he won't ask even him to swallow. (Not to mention that -- in his experience -- Therinian lube at the back of one's throat is a decidedly bizarre and off-putting sensation.)

He grins at Ianto. "Keep him distracted while I'm getting cleaned up."

Ianto teases Jack's mouth with a kiss. "Any suggestions?"

He shrugs. "You can start by sucking his brains out through his lovely cock."

Ianto blushes crimson. "Seriously?"

He smiles. "If you want to, yes. Jack's brains won't make much of a mouthful, but one can't have everything."

Jack glares, pride wounded. "Like you should-- OH MY GOD!"

Apparently, Ianto's very open to suggestion when presented with such an opportunity. Good to know. The naughty boy smiles at him around the head of Jack's cock.

Though very little fazes him, John's ability to form coherent thought nearly evaporates at the vision of his beautiful Ianto performing some remarkably expert fellatio on Jack.

Ianto looks up through lowered lashes. "Thought you were going to shower." He darts a lick along the head of Jack's cock.

When his own cock jumps in envy, John snaps out of it. "God, I love you, darling."

"I know." Ianto deep-throats Jack hard enough to make him throw his head back and moan.

"Fantastic, isn't he?' he says to Jack.

"Sh-sh-sh-shOWER!" Jack begs. "Please, I -- OH MY GOD, YES!"

Humming happily to himself, John heads for the rather sumptuous bathroom. Hot water feels good. The shower surround is ridiculously spacious. The toiletries provided are of acceptably luxurious quality. The thought of the imminent threesome he's going to enjoy makes the experience that much richer.

And sweetest of all will be when he RetCons a shagged-out Jack and escapes with Ianto.

When he returns to the bedroom (still towelling his hair dry) Ianto has Jack laid out flat on the bed and is putting his spectacularly talented mouth to good use. Jack is flushed and tousled and moaning and looks good enough to eat.

John approaches carefully -- no sense spooking the boy when he's doing such fine work. He kneels on the bed. Knee-walks over to Ianto. Strokes up the backs of the boy's thighs. Traces up his back. Opens each chakra slowly. Ianto shivers. Redoubles his efforts. Jack gasps, eyes widening in surprise and pleasure.

He bends close to Ianto's ear. "Would you like to take him, my love?"

"Yes," comes the breathy sigh before Ianto draws Jack deep again.

He caresses Ianto's back. "Have you ever shagged a man before?"

"No."

He nips the side of Ianto's neck. "Shall I show you how?"

Ianto surges up. Kisses him deeply. "Yes, please."

John glances at his ex. "Any objections?"

Jack is panting and gorgeous. He shakes his head no. "Have you got... Therinian...?"

"In the drawer, darling." As Jack fumbles for the Therinian tablets, John takes his beautiful Ianto into his arms. Kisses him slowly. "Do you like the thought, my lovely?"

Residual body-tension confirms his suspicions. "I-I don't want to hurt him."

"You won't." He wraps a hand around Ianto's cock, which jumps against his palm. "I'll have him so hot and bothered by the time I let you have him that you'll be able to fuck him as hard as you like and he'll just beg you for more."

Ianto lets all his breath out in one shuddering sigh of desire.

He nips at Ianto's mouth. Draws his lower lip in. Suckles a little. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, my love?"

"Yes."

He speeds the strokes of his hand on that pretty cock. "He'll be hot and tight."

Ianto moans.

Jack snags a few pillows. Leans over them, his lovely arse in the air where it belongs. When John reaches for him, he finds Jack already slick and wanting. (One finger to start, darling. Don't be so impatient -- you always come hardest when you let me warm you up properly.)

He kisses Ianto again. "You've been with girls, my love?"

"Kim." Ianto presses into John's fist with every stroke.

"Good." He tastes the sweat below Ianto's jaw. "Boys are tighter, my love. Hotter. Have to work in slowly, even more slowly than with a lady, but it's well worth the effort."

Another of those sweet moans. "You don't mind that I want him?"

"Why should I?" He snogs Ianto hard to make sure he's paying attention. "Tell me what you want, my love."

"Him." Ianto's hard and hot in his hand. Jack is moaning and pressing into his touch. (This night is turning out better than he'd ever planned.)

"What do you want with him?" Two fingers in Jack. Twist and turn on Ianto's cock with the other hand.

"I w-want to mount him."

He gives Ianto's cock three hard pulls. Swirls his thumb over the glans, which is now slick with pre-come. "Mounting's for horses, darling," he murmurs.

"I want to fuck him."

As a shiver of lust runs up his gorgeous lover's spine -- and a matching moan of desire echoes from Jack -- John strokes Ianto's cock just the way he likes it as a reward. "How do you want to fuck him, my love?"

"Deep," Ianto whispers. "Hard." His voice is hoarse, but steady. A blazing hot look catches the full attention of John's cock. "Enough so he'll feel it in the morning."

"Hold his hips?" He adds a third finger to the two already moving in Jack.

"Yes."

"Slip inside?"

"Yes!"

"Just the head at first, darling. Make him beg you for it."

"Yes!"

He kisses his lover fiercely. "And when he does beg?"

"Oh fuck..." Ianto struggles for words. "Oh John, I'm going to fuck him."

He glances at his ex. "Jack?"

"Yes!" Jack hasn't been this hot since... Fuck it. He can't even remember the last time Jack was this hot.

John withdraws his fingers. Guides Ianto forward. Positions that lovely cock just so. Ianto takes Jack's hips. John kneels behind him. Kisses Ianto's shoulder as his lover slides in. The boy gives the most exquisite shudder. Jack writhes in pleasure. John holds Ianto's hips. Moves him slowly. Sensually. (Take your time, darling. He'll love you the more for it if you do.)

Ianto turns his head. Kisses him deeply.

He loves this boy in ways he doesn't have words for. "How is he, darling?"

"Good." Ianto flounders for coherence. "So good."

"Not just good." Jack pants. "Oh FUCK, yes! -- the best."

"Awfully cocky, isn't he?" John murmurs in Ianto's ear. He keeps firm hands at Ianto's hips. Moves him slowly, deeper and deeper.

"In-insufferable," Ianto agrees.

John encourages Ianto to stroke a little faster. "What shall we do about it, my love?"

"Find something to keep him quiet." Oh blessed Christ, is that a devilish twinkle in those lovely blue eyes?'

He snogs his lover hard. "Darling, did you just suggest I go put my cock in our guest's mouth?"

Jack moans, wanting.

"Do you want to?" Only a trace of uncertainty remains in Ianto's eyes.

"If you don't mind." He usually doesn't feel the need to ask permission of a lover, but Ianto is rewriting the rules on a number of things.

Ianto's look darkens in a way that would make even the limpest cock stand at attention. "Make him suck you, John."

(Swear to God, darling, I'm going to marry your kinky little arse.)

John crawls up to the head of the bed. Looks down at his ex. Savours the hot look between them. He checks once more with Ianto -- who is stroking Jack like the magnificent fuck he is.

Ianto gives a slow, dangerous smile. "I want to watch."

John grins. Teases Jack's lips with the head of his cock. Makes him chase it even as Ianto rocks him with every stroke.

Jack glares. "Goddammit, John!"

He trades an amused look with Ianto, whose eyes are half-closed in pleasure. "Awfully bossy for a bottom."

"Shall I fuck him harder?" Ooooooooh. Ianto's well into it now.

"Yes."

 _Yes, please, yes, please, yes!_ As John slides his cock down Jack's throat, Ianto fucks the Captain deeper. It's good. Better than good. Hot and tight as John promised. John kisses him as Jack draws each of their cocks deeper still.

He times his strokes to match John. Follows his lead. Thrusts hard and slow. Kisses John as he does. For his part, John shags Jack's mouth with slow, rough strokes. Keeps one hand at the back of Jack's head. Reaches up with the other to pinch Ianto's nipple. The blissful distraction, right on the edge of pain, shivers through his body. He smiles against John's lips. Settles into the steady build. John locks gazes with him. Follows the rhythm he sets. Smiles as Jack grabs the back of John's thigh, desperate for more. (Oh, they really have the Captain now.)

"Harder," Jack pulls away just enough to say. "Dammit, I'm not made of cellophane."

And for a moment, he falters.

"You heard the man." John's gaze is steady and reassuring. "Hard for being bossy, and harder still for saying a word as stupid as 'cellophane' in the middle of a fuck like this." John grins his roguish grin. "Fuck him raw, darling." 

John flinches suddenly, but doesn't lose the grin. He looks down at Jack. "Teeth, lover? I didn't think you remembered." Another flinch. A deeper smile. "Oooooooh. Do THAT!"

And it must be turning Jack on too -- those perfect internal muscles ripple along him. Draw him in. Welcome him more. Ianto speeds up, and he and John take Jack as fiercely as they can. John's mouth takes his. Demanding. Fierce. Biting just as exquisitely as he did before. (John's right -- the bite is the perfect spice.)

The orgasm ripples up. Out. Shakes him so hard all he can do is piston. Hold Jack hard. Scream. John comes only a second later. Shudders into Jack's mouth.

Ianto pours himself into Jack. Falls to the bed. Sinks into ecstatic oblivion.

 _Yes, please, yes, please, yes!_ Jack drinks John down. Swallows greedily. Ianto was better than he'd hoped, but now he's good and warmed up and ready for the main course. (And with any luck, John hasn't modded out that special genetic quirk that's made him so popular over the years.)

He licks his lips. (John tastes even better than he remembered.) "So can you still?"

John grins. Throws him backwards. Jack fights. Claws. Lands a good punch that rocks John's head back. John clocks him a good one in reply. Flips him onto his stomach. Pins his arm behind him, right on the edge of pain.

John teases his ear with hot breath. "Be good," his gorgeous psychopath whispers, "or I'll spend the second time on your back, just to be a bastard."

And John would too. Jack's own cock is hard and unfinished beneath him. This tryst to really put him in the mood, then he'll put that hard-on to good use.

"Tell me what you want, Jack."

He shivers in anticipation. "Fuck me."

John twists his other arm up hard. Holds him. Knocks his knees wide. Wider.

He arches up, wanting it.

A superior chuckle. "Tell me why I should, darling."

He turns his cheek to the bed so he can breathe. "Because you want it just as badly."

The hot head of John's cock circles, teasing between his buttocks. "Wanting isn't getting."

He grins. "You do me, I'll do you back."

Judging by the pause, that was the right answer. "Promise?"

"Honey, I've got to do something with this hard-on." He struggles a little so John will wrench his arms a little harder. (Only you, John. Only you like this.) "I might as well use it to fuck you as hard and kinky as you like."

"Oh, I have missed you." John slides into him with the confidence of a lover who knows him better than anyone. The leisurely fuck speeds into a full pounding.

Jack struggles. Fights. John rides him back to the mattress, fearless. Bites his neck, hard. "Shall I really hurt you this time?"

"Yes!"

Where John gets the blade from is anyone's guess. The sharp edge pulls him up to kneeling.

"Mods," he manages. "Cat."

The blade cuts a bit into his throat. "Why should I?"

"You do me--" he gasps for air -- "I'll do you back."

John chuckles. Stabs the blade into the mattress. Grabs his hips. 

The best thing about being fucked by John is it's never the same cock twice. The man invested a fortune years ago, and Jack has -- ohhhhhh, yes! A bit of barb. A little longer than normal. He presses back. John shifts it again. Wider. Curved. It hits him just right. He screams his pleasure. Spreads himself wide. John ripples inside him. OhhhhhhGODYESGODYESGODYES!

John bends over him. "Sliding on Ianto's come, darling."

"Yes!" He's so close. So close. Soclosesoclosesoclose!

"Shall I show him this when he wakes?"

"Yes!" He bows his head. Submits to a cock that, if not actually sentient, is the next best thing.

"Shall I fuck him right in front of you in ways he's never imagined?"

"Yes!"

"As you wish." Harder. Faster. Stranger. Shifting almost with every stroke. Perfect. Weird. Wonderful. Everything he's missed. Everything he's wanted. Everything he's needed. (Oh God, honey, I should NEVER have left you!)

Jack comes screaming. John wraps himself around him. Fills him with a deep moan of pleasure.

They collapse, panting, in each other's arms. Once he can breathe again, he kisses John. And for just one moment, dreams of a world where the three of them could be together.

John pulls him close. Buries his face in Jack's neck for a moment. Shivering, Jack begins to remember how to move.

"I do love you, Jack."

He brushes John's lips, a whispered kiss. "I know." The half kiss makes the energy build again, even as his body recovers. (Best thing about immortality is the short refractory period.)

John stretches for the kiss. "I do you, you'll do me back?"

He laughs. In a burst of energy, he throws John off. Slips off the bed after him. Catches him. Bends him over the bed. Slides in one aching millimetre at a time.

John is incoherent with pleasure at the friction. (He loves it raw.)

He tangles his fingers in John's hair. Pulls his head up. Savages his neck. Shags him slowly. Thoroughly. Finds every sweet spot just as John found his. Then, when he's good and warm, Jack reaches for the knife. Yanks it free from the bed. 

John's breathing speeds. "You remembered."

He slows his strokes. Makes John feel every one. Caresses up one side of John's face with the blade. Down the other. John moans. Presses back to meet him at the peak of each thrust. 

"Is this what you missed?" Jack murmurs.

A low chuckle. "You know it is."

He pulls John up sharply, blade at his throat. (Careful not to draw blood.) "I love you."

"Shut up, Jack." But judging by the ripple of muscles, John's enjoying more than he'll admit.

He presses the point into the soft spot beneath John's chin. "I should never have left you."

"Don't ruin it, darling"

He wraps his arms around his ex-lover even as he moves, more and more confident by the second. Lays the flat of the blade along John's cheek. "You were the best I ever had."

"It's a sin to tell a lie." But John can't hide how every fibre of his body is quivering. Building. The sweat is slick between them.

He drives the blade back into the mattress. Presses John down. Grabs his hips with both hands. Angles up. Down. Swirls. Lets every sigh and curse and arch of John's back guide him closer and closer to the edge.

"Jack! Oh fuck, yes, JACK!"

He comes just as hard as John does. Savours it. Holds him tightly.

 _Yes, please, yes, please, yes!_ John is as close to perfectly happy as he gets. Panting, he turns his head. Kisses Jack's cheek. It's not forgiveness, but the truce is holding. To his delight, Jack kisses his mouth leisurely. (I almost forgot how much I've missed you.)

Once they can move, they haul themselves back up and onto the bed. Collapse again, laughing and incoherent.

But of course, they're too wise to woo peaceably. He's just as quick on the draw with one pulse-pistol as Jack is with the other. (Apparently the dumbass was paying attention.) Both of them are uncoordinated. The barrels of both guns tremble pitifully, but John holds his hand as steady as possible.

Jack matches his hard look as long as he can, but to John's great pleasure, he breaks first. 

"Fucking bastard," Jack says affectionately. He lowers his weapon.

"You love it." He leans up into the kiss. Sets the pistol aside. Curls a hand around Jack's head. Pulls him closer. 

"Yeah," Jack admits. "And what does that say about me?"

Chuckling, John curls up on one side of the still-unconscious Jones, Jack takes the other. Both of them wrap themselves protectively around this beautiful boy who -- in spite of everything -- has brought them together.

And that's when Ianto begins to snore. When they look, he's beautifully dishevelled, a freshly-fucked angel on white sheets.


	4. Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (In which Ianto washes up, Jack cleans up, and John antes up.)

"Trust and you'll be trusted  
Says the liar to the fool  
Lust and so what if you're busted?  
In love and war there ain't no rules

"Do you believe in forever?  
I don't even believe in tomorrow  
The only things that last forever  
Are memories and sorrow

"Out of sight out of mind  
The motto of betrayal  
The prophets preach to forgive and forget  
I'm sorry, but I am unable."  
(Type O Negative)

(In which Ianto washes up, Jack cleans up, and John antes up.)

 

_Chuckling, John curls up on one side of the still-unconscious Ianto, Jack takes the other. Both of them wrap themselves protectively around this beautiful boy who -- in spite of everything -- has brought them together._

_And that's when Ianto begins to snore. When they look, he's beautifully dishevelled -- a freshly-fucked angel on white sheets._

 

John touches Ianto's face gently. The lovely boy stirs in his sleep. Shifts. Falls back into silent slumber.

He snuggles closer, as does Jack. They eye each other warily (and -- if he's honest -- a bit sleepily) over Ianto's chest.

"Much as I'd love to continue the dick-measuring contest," he says.

Jack nods. "Nap." He yawns like an overfed tomcat. "Definitely nap."

John settles in for sleep, one arm draped across Ianto. The fingertips of his other hand brush the familiar reassurance of the grip of one of his pulse-pistols, which is holstered between the mattress and the headboard. 

Even starting from a sound sleep, if he can't out-draw a slow-hand like Jack, he'd be embarrassed to show his face back in his own time.

 _When he opens his eyes, the world's a different place_. Ianto's warm. Almost too warm. Being sandwiched between Jack and John is both the height of bliss and slightly sticky. Though in actuality, it IS wonderful. Loved. This is what it feels like to be loved. And protected. And maybe even fought over a bit. Cliché though it might be, it's actually good for the ego. (Ah, life as the crème filling in a Captain sandwich.)

Ianto watches Jack, trying to reassure his poor battered memory that this face he's been seeking for as long as he can remember is real. Jack's film-idol good looks are even more breathtaking in sleep. His first love is real. The thought both warms and terrifies him, because the flush of lust from his groin tells him in no uncertain terms that -- danger and complications aside -- he'd have the Captain again in a minute if he could.

John stirs against his other side, nuzzling closer. Ianto cups the sleeping face in his hand. John's lids flicker open, then close again. Love. He loves this beautiful, bizarre stranger with such a painful intensity that he can't help kissing him.

"Mmm?" The questioning hum turns to a muffled moan of pleasure. John snogs him sleepily. Against all logic, his lover tastes of cinnamon and champagne -- a guilty pleasure. Ianto lingers, stretching the kiss out as long as he can.

"Shao'r fir...," John manages, eyes heavy-lidded. "N... bak t'bed.... 'M nxt."

"I love you." The words make him ridiculously happy. (Though if he starts giggling like a girl, he'll ask John to shoot him.)

"Love... too." John's eyes flicker shut -- hard to be sure if he was ever fully awake. "Shower," he murmurs again. "... Wake ... when..." The rest trails off into sleepy incoherence. John's breathing soon settles back into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Ianto carefully extracts himself from between his two lovers. Slips down the length of the bed. Pads over to the bathroom. Lack of coordination has never been so much fun. He's all but humming to himself as he turns on the very posh taps for what promises to be a five-star wash-up after a five-star shag. (Several five-star shags, come to think of it.)

Not sure what he'll find when he goes back to bed, but at least it was a night to remember.

 _When he opens his eyes, the world's a different place._ The man Jack left years ago is tousled and drowsing beside him. The bed linens reek pleasantly of sex and cinnamon and the sweet musk of Jones. Ianto. Beautiful Ianto.

"I saa he frst," John murmurs into his pillow in drowsy Neo-Standard.

"You can't keep him, you know," he murmurs. (Damn this yawn.) "And you bloody well did NOT see him first."

"U no taak he, Jak." John lolls. Stretches, his indolence a thin veneer for the bodily threat beneath. "or I keel U, ja?"

"Nai," he denies. (Considering that both of them are naked in bed after a very lovely shag, he finds the death threat less than convincing.) "Ianto Jones deserves a real life."

A steely glare. "A real life like the one I offered you?" John taunts, then sobers. "I maak he hnst maan, Jak."

"U j/k me nao sai hnst," he retorts in Neo-Standard -- though his grammar is admittedly a little rusty. "U maak he do criim, liik u."

"Don't be insulting," says John. "I'm a Time Agent, an officer of the intergalactic law, duly authorized by the Shadow Proclamation to roam time and space enforcing order, protecting citizens, and restoring the timeline."

He keeps a straight face for as long as he can, then he and John dissolve into laughter.

"That was a good one, John." He wipes tears of mirth from his eyes. "If you hadn't said 'protecting citizens', I might've held out."

"Pffft. I haven't killed anyone in weeks," says John. "Well, anyone who didn't deserve it, anyway."

He sobers. "U nai keep he nao ni nvr."

John attempts a hard look, but his expression is more hurt than threatening. "I love him, Jack."

He nods, heart twisting in sympathy. "So do I."

"So why not come with us?" John smiles, cajoling. "You've always said there's room for one more."

It's a testament to the seductive power of his ex that for a moment Jack is tempted. But in the end he shakes his head no. "I have important work to do here, John. You know what happens in the years to come. So do I. Maybe I can help. I owe it to them to try."

"You don't owe anyone anything," says John. "Because that would be interfering with the timeline more than you already have -- which, I might add is completely counter to your sudden attack of morality. Honestly, Jack, I don't know what you think you've been up to, but if you keep wavering in the murky middle of pretending to be a good guy when we both know you're a--"

"Things have changed." He glares. "And how exactly do you expect to take the high moral ground after the life you've led?"

"At least I'm an honest con man." 

"That's an oxymoron."

"Takes one to know one." John glares. "And I nai frgiiv i U taak he."

He kisses John. "Then I won't ask for your forgiveness." He flicks his eyes toward the bathroom. "Jones'll be done soon, and we both know what has to happen next."

"It doesn't." John very seldom lets this much real emotion show. "Jack. It doesn't."

"You just met him." He never could understand how John could commit himself to someone so quickly.

John won't meet his eyes. "Doesn't matter."

"Then help me help him." He pulls John close. Savours the familiar feel of his lover's body close to his. "Giv tiim. Let liv liif. Giv he chns."

"Delayed gratification?" John scoffs, even as he snuggles into the embrace. "U no me 2 wel 2 ask tht, Jak."

He keeps his voice perfectly even. "I thought you said you loved him."

"U R prik, Jak," says John bitterly.

He kisses his temple. "Learned from the best, honey."

"Glad to know you were paying attention." John kisses him, hard and deep and almost painfully good. 

For a few more guilty minutes he abandons himself to the kiss. Tastes John deeply. Revels in the sheer joy of having a lover who can match him, even in this. (God, I'm going to miss you, honey.)

"I suppose," John says, always long-suffering, "nao U want I hel U cvr tis?"

"You love him," he says.

"Play that card one more time, Jack," John warns, "and I really WILL shoot you."

"Seven years." He caresses him. "Give the boy seven years."

John stares at him. "Of what?"

"Life. This world, here and now. This time." He smiles. "Give him a chance to be him."

John's eyes narrow. "This isn't a fucking fairytale, Jack. He can be who he is wherever and whenever he is. Besides, a lot can happen in seven years."

He allows himself one last kiss. "If he fell for you once, he'll fall for you again -- fair and square this time."

"Oh that's flattering," John retorts. "I didn't cheat, Jack."

He raises a disbelieving eyebrow at him. "Your pheromones still smell like cinnamon and sandalwood, right? So unless your idea of foreplay included baking cookies and burning incense...?"

John's adorable when he sulks.

He catches his ex's eyes. "Just let him get old enough to have some perspective, honey. You'll still be sexy and dangerous and hot as fuck in bed. Besides, who knows what might change by the time you return?" (And he is NOT entertaining fairytales of his own.)

John looks at him a long time. Drops his gaze, beaten at last. "I'll go explain it to him."

"Thank you." He doesn't have to fake the sincerity as he lays back.

John sits up. Turns away. Turns back. Lands a breath-stealing punch straight down into Jack's gut. Pain. Pain, oh God. He folds around the fist. Tries to remember how to breathe.

"I won't forget this, Jack," John says coldly.

"Kinda... got that... impression..." Jack gasps. Recovers his breath. Uncurls slowly as his ex heads for the bathroom.

Yup. Now he'll have to RetCon them both.

 _When he opens his eyes, the world's a different place._ It really pisses John off -- Jack never intended to help Ianto. Knowing his heartless ex's cavalier approach to sex and the feelings of others, this whole scene could've been a set-up from the start. (You just wanted to get laid, didn't you, you prick? At least when I want to shag someone I'm HONEST about it.)

Well, fortunately for his beautiful young lover, John had the whole cross/double-cross thing mastered when he was barely out of diapers -- in his family he had to if he wanted to survive infancy.

When John steps into the bathroom, Ianto's wreathed in clouds of steam behind the glass door of the shower-surround. Mouth-watering sight, that is. 

Lust for Ianto wins out over righteous indignation at Jack and he indulges in an ogle.

Ianto glances his way. Smiles. Jerks his head in invitation.

Heart twisting, he joins his lover. The lovely boy kisses him deeply. Runs expressive hands down his back. Tips the shower head so steaming water flows over them both. Takes his hand. Kisses the palm. Draws each of his fingers into his mouth. Tells him with eyes and tongue what he'd like to do next. And all the while that naughty sparkle. (You really are lovely, aren't you?)

For his part, John's never been so sure about anything as he is about this boy. This can't be accident. Can't be luck. God is up to something, and for once it might not involve him getting his heart trampled on.

Ianto runs John's hand down his chest. Over the flat planes of his hip. Curls John's fingers around a lovely hard heat.

He grins, impressed. "Maybe you're not human after all."

"And aren't you lucky?" Ianto kisses him. Strokes his cock with a knowing hand. He returns the favour. Pulls the boy closer. Breathes with him. He changes the angle of his grip on his lover's cock. Ianto does the same. He slows. Ianto smiles, stroking him with a leisurely hand. He kisses his gorgeous lover. Ianto catches the back of his neck with his free hand. Nips at his mouth. Teases. Draws his tongue deeply. Kisses him so that he doesn't want to remember anything else. And all the while, that lovely hand scarcely misses a beat on his cock. He builds with him. (Darling, I love the way you shiver when you're right on the edge.) Ianto shudders against him. Cries out. Comes beautifully. Buries his face in John's shoulder. He savours his own orgasm. Lets the pleasure roll him. Clings to his lover so he won't crumple to the floor.

They rest in each other's arms, hot water pouring down. The shower reeks of sandalwood and cinnamon but even more enticing is the overlay of Ianto's sweet musk. Pungent. Promising. (Ohhhh. The things I'm going to show you, my love.) After a moment more, Ianto kisses him. Moves back a bit to kneel, presumably to finish him a second time with his mouth. He stops him.

Sopping wet, Ianto looks even younger than he is. An uncertain gaze. "You said twice?"

They really should hurry, but he can't bring himself to admit the night is over. "Yes, darling, but not right now."

Ianto sobers. Stands. "What is it?"

"Jack," he admits. "He sent me in here to RetCon you."

To his credit, Ianto doesn't look surprised.

He smiles at him. "Five points for smarts, my love."

"People don't change," says Ianto. "If he's mucked about with people's minds before, he'll do it again. It's a power trip, which is why no one should have the right to control another person's mind."

If only things were that simple. He moves closer. Puts one hand on each delectable mound of Ianto's arse. "I'm not going to do it."

Ianto smiles that gorgeous half-smile. "I know."

A boy he hardly knows. He's risking everything for a boy he hardly knows. The Powers that Be have a strange way of playing tricks on his heart. "I love you."

"I love you too." The kiss is sweet. Deep. Fierce. A young man staking his claim. Challenging him to give his whole heart.

Fortunately for Ianto, he's had the good sense to fall in love with someone clever. "Time agents have a trick," he murmurs. "Useful for deep cover, where there's always the possibility of someone RetConning you halfway through a mission."

"An antidote?" His lover guesses.

"A preservative," he corrects. "Every Time Agent can quickly manufacture one dose. More than that takes time -- the combination of nanogenes and neurotransmitters involves some fairly heavy-duty tech and chemistry, even for someone from my time."

"I almost followed that," says Ianto. "Should that scare me?"

"Probably." He kisses him. "Plan is I give you a pill. It's part drug, part microscopic robots. It diffuses into your body. Takes and preserves a snapshot of your mind as it is now. Your memories as they are now. You as you are now."

Ianto considers him with a seriousness all out of proportion with his age. "So I take the RetCon, but it has no effect?"

"No," he says. "You take the RetCon, and that idiot out there thinks you're a closed case. You forget tonight. You forget him. You forget me."

He kisses the boy again even as Ianto shakes his head no.

"You blend back in," he insists. "Now listen -- I give you my word of honour as a Cavaliere of Serenissima that I would never just abandon you to them. No. You take the preservative. You take the RetCon. You forget tonight and Jack and me." He kisses Ianto to drown out his objections. "You lay low for two months of your timeline, and then I return for you."

"But..." The pleading in those eyes is killing him.

He cups Ianto's face in his hands. "You'll have to trust me, darling. I'll come back for you after the set time has elapsed. I'll say the words. My symbiont will manufacture the right neurotransmitter and transfer it to the dermal layers of my mouth..." 

He kisses his lover slowly. Deeply. Communicates all his determination and emotion.

"And you wake the real me with a kiss," Ianto murmurs.

"Just like in a fairytale," he says. "Only with high technology, cutting-edge biochemistry, and DNA coding to ensure that no one but me can wake you."

"What if it goes wrong?" Ianto kisses him back.

"It can't." Few things are quite so enjoyable as making out with this promising a protégé. "That's the beauty of this, darling. Jack can't RetCon a symbiont permanently. They're implanted in people of my era to process toxins, manufacture beneficial chemicals, and both store and organize information. A symbiont is like a supercomputer with anti-venin. And it will remember." He caresses Ianto's dripping hair. "One way or another, my love, I will always remember you."

The pale blue eyes are veiled. "How do I know you're not just lying to me now?"

"You don't," he says. He pulls Ianto into an even more possessive embrace. Snogs him fiercely, enjoying the way his mouth grinds against that of his young lover. "Intoxicating, isn't it? This whole 'trust' thing?"

That lovely blue gaze is steady when they part. "Let's do it."

Grinning, he kisses the boy. Prods the symbiont. After a few very sullen moments (fecking thing never did do well with absinthe), it begins to gather the chemicals necessary to manufacture the neurotransmitter. Transfers the dose to the small subdermal container in his wrist. John steps out of the shower. Opens the container. Holds up the pill.

Ianto steps out too. Opens his mouth. Swallows the dose. "What's the password?"

"It's more post-hypnotic trigger than password."

"Post- hypnotic?" Right on cue, Ianto's eyes go unfocussed. His body relaxes.

He wraps a towel around him. Pulls the boy close. "Giovanni Nero San Martin di Cuore," he murmurs. Unlikely Ianto will hear that name between now and when he returns. "Say the trigger, my love."

"Giovanni Nero San Martin di Cuore." The boy has such a lovely accent that the syllables roll off his tongue.

He bends close. "Come back to me, my love."

Ianto's eyes focus. He blinks. "Giovanni?"

"Gianni to some." Ironically, his current handle is an Anglicization of his given name.

Ianto folds the towel around himself. Stares. "You're Italian?"

"Machiavellian." He turns off the taps, holding his towel out of the way.

Ianto starts towelling his hair. "There's a difference?"

"About thirty-five hundred years and several thousand light-years, yeah." He finishes towelling himself off for the second time this evening. "I'll explain everything when I return, my love, but we're running out of time."

Right on cue, there's a knock at the door. "You boys mind if I join you?" says Jack, voice still muffled.

He questions his young lover with a look. Ianto nods.

He pitches his voice to carry. "Come in, lover." He smiles at Ianto, who smiles back. "I think you'll find we've reached an understanding."


	5. Oblivion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (In which Ianto throws a punch, Jack slips a mickey, and John orders in.)

"I'd love   
To watch him dream   
Love to see   
Him sleep   
To have his arms   
Around me   
Feel him   
As he breathes   
Hold his hands   
In mine   
Sense   
His perfect trust   
I'd give   
All I ever had   
For a moment   
Of his love...

"A boy I never knew   
And the man   
I'll never know   
I'll never know   
I'll never know "  
(The Cure)

(In which Ianto throws a punch, Jack slips a mickey, and John orders in.)

 

_Right on cue, there's a knock at the door. "You boys mind if I join you?" says Jack's voice, still muffled._

_John questions him with a look. Ianto nods, heart pounding. The lingering taste of the drug is still vaguely metallic in his mouth._

_John pitches his voice to carry. "Come in, lover." His look is level, which helps Ianto's stomach to stop flip-flopping so violently. And that smile... how can he do anything but smile back?_

_"I think you'll find," John continues, "we've reached an understanding."_

 

It's all he can do not to giggle at the conspiracy. Giddy. He's ridiculously giddy and terrified and excited and God he'd love nothing quite so much as to have John (or be had by him) right here, right now. Maybe make good use of that counter and the wall-length mirror?

He schools his expression to be calmer than he feels.

 _Not sure what they're up to._ Jack, not being completely stupid, can pretty much count on his ex to cook up some hare-brained scheme -- and he's right. John has that innocent/blank look that might as well tattoo "UP TO SOMETHING" on his forehead. But it won't matter in a bit, because he's going to RetCon both John and Jones, so let them say their angst-ridden farewells and smirk at each other. (Jones is actually not half bad at the poker face, though it'd be more convincing if it weren't so obvious that he's keeping his emotions in check behind that impassive façade.)

As for himself, he's still tired as hell (it WAS a good shag) so they might as well bring this farce to a close. He tosses John his trousers and sets Ianto's clothes on the counter. "Did he tell you?"

Jones nods, a high flush on his cheeks. "He said it was your idea."

This whole thing would be easier if he didn't need a shower quite so badly and if the lower half of his body weren't reminding him so forcibly how much fun these two were in bed. (He aches in all the right ways.) "You'll want to get dressed."

Nodding miserably, Ianto reaches for his trousers. With another evil look at Jack, John finishes tucking himself back into those pettable skin-tight trousers and heads over to help Ianto with the billion-and-one D-rings on the front of his shirt.

Jack pulls on his own mesh shirt and makes at least a cursory attempt to refasten the corset. He's not really in the mood to try to squeeze himself back into the thing, and he doubts either Jones or John are in a particularly helpful mood.

When he glances up, he's annoyed to find that Jones is --if anything -- even MORE attractive now that he knows what's under the layers.

John gives Ianto a slow, lingering, frighteningly sincere kiss.

He glares. "Not that you're putting on a show with a boy you just met."

John brushes Ianto's lips with his. "I'm not the heartless bastard here, Jack."

He refuses to feel guilty. Someone has to think about the future in realistic terms, and realistic terms do not include John, Serenissima, or Torchwood One. "Do you want to do the honours or shall I?"

A sullen John folds his arms. Leans against the counter. Glares at him with that insouciant eyebrow raised. "You're barking mad if you think I'll help you there, lover."

Irritating, but hardly unexpected. He circles around toward Jones. Keeps John well in front of him -- no sense opening himself up for an attack.

"Why would you do this?" Jones asks softly. "Haven't you helped me before?"

Low blow. He is not going to let these two turn him into the Grinch, not after going a round with Yvonne on Jones's behalf. "You deserve a real life. This is the best way to make sure you get it."

The tears in Ianto's eyes aren't fake. "I-I thought you gave me your word that-that nothing bad would happen to me."

He blinks at the pricking of tears. Keeps his face calm. Holds up the pill. "Dissolves instantly. Works in a matter of seconds. I promise I'll keep you safe."

Jones, stricken, looks to John. John shifts uncomfortably. Nods.

He has to give Jones credit -- that pleading look could thaw the hardest heart.

He takes Ianto's hand. Puts the RetCon in it. "I don't want to have to restrain you, Ianto, but I will if I must."

The first tears slip from Jones's eyes as he swallows the pill.

"I love you," says John softly.

Jones gives John a look so intensely passionate that it leaves Jack breathless. "I love you too."

Yeah, he feels quite the heartless bastard. Jack reminds himself forcibly that this is the right thing to do.

Jones turns on him, rage blazing in his eyes. "I will never forgive you for this."

But the RetCon kicks in just as the kid throws the punch. Jones misses his chin by a comfortable margin. John rushes to catch Jones. Eases him to the floor.

"What now, bright boy?" says John.

Jack heaves Jones up onto his shoulder. "Time to go."

John regards him with hard eyes. "Where to?"

"UCL."

"Back to the dorms?" John scoffs. "He's had his first full-contact fuck with a man, Jack. You can RetCon him all you want, but his body will remember."

He has a point. "You're carrying nanogenes?" Jack says.

An evil glare, but John obediently -- and sullenly -- releases the golden cloud of them. He and John watch in silence as the nanogenes seep through Jones's clothing. Repair any lacerations or minor abrasions that would tell him what had happened to him the night before.

"I will NEVER forgive you for this, Jack," says John. "What kind of soulless prick takes away the memory of a man's first time?"

"Seven years," he says. "You can duck back to the fifty-first and come back right away if you like, but let Ianto have the time."

John calls back the nanogenes and shuts them back into their subdermal container. "Oh, would you please lay off the sales pitch and just get your fucking keys?"

 _Not sure what they're up to._ John's making this up as he goes. He's never been one for planning to the letter -- the more you plan, the more likely that things'll go tits-up -- but this is definitely a situation that will require some finesse.

His lover was brilliant. The tears. The missed punch. Gorgeous. This is definitely one he'll have to take home to Mother. (And Ianto's young and fit and good breeding stock too, from the look of it. Ideal for a future mate.)

He makes damn sure to lay on the Sullen as he follows Jack to the SUV. "What's your cover story for him? Or have you bothered to think that far?"

Jack gently lays Ianto down along the back seat. Tucks him in. Shuts the door. "We take him home and put him in bed."

"Yeah," he scoffs. "Because that's been so convincing every other time you've done it. Honestly, Jack, did you learn NOTHING from your time with me? Cons work best when the mark doesn't know he's been conned."

It's his heartless ex's turn to look slightly sullen, a sure sign that the idiot has figured out that John -- yet again -- happens to be right. "What do you propose?"

"Back to the rave." John gets in the passenger side of the vehicle (never was one for driving in this century if he can avoid it). "And let me handle it."

Though he doubts highly that Jack trusts him, at least there are no further arguments.

Infiltrating the party isn't a problem. Bouncers know him. Many in the crowd know him -- if only by coat and reputation. Girl or two slide invitingly past him. (Believe me, darling, if I had the time I might want to, mood that I'm in.) But he finds Kim relatively quickly.

Lucky for him, she hasn't paired off with anyone yet. 

He pitches his voice to carry over the music. "So lovely and yet all alone?"

Her face lights up when she sees him. "No one was worth it." She snogs him a good one. "Till now."

He kisses her back, in part just to enjoy it and in part to imagine that he's kissing the boy he loves. Now how to phrase the request?

"How was he?" Kim asks.

The bluntness catches him off guard. "Who?"

Kim laughs. "'Who'? Ianto. Didn't think you could get him away from my rave without me noticing, did you? Ianto's like me baby brother. Except for the whole us having a shag from time to time."

Sadly, such close genetic relations wouldn't stop some branches of his own family. "He is lovely, but I need a favour."

Kim's look hardens. "Were you good to him?"

Protective Kimmy. He loves her for that. "I didn't touch him."

Kim snorts. "Yeah, right. Adam not shag someone. That'll happen."

He catches her arm and lies his best. "I'm telling you, Kimmy, nothing happened between us. I couldn't, not with him so... By the time we got back to the hotel whatever he'd taken had him so far under the influence that he couldn't have consented even if he'd wanted to."

Kim's hard look melts. "My God, you DO have a conscience."

"You know me, darling -- consent's half the fun." He puts just enough genuine emotion into his voice to make it convincing. "Ianto's a sweet boy. Why would I want to hurt him?"

She doesn't entirely believe him. Not surprising -- Kimmy's smarter than people give her credit for -- but also not insurmountable. "Sure took your time getting back here," she says.

"I was hoping he'd sleep it off." He shrugs. "Maybe wake up a bit more... amorous."

"Aren't we the gentleman?" To his delight, she cups him through his trousers. "So, all that honour and only blue balls to show for it?" The play of those fingers is too delicious for words. "Poor noble Adam."

He leans into the touch. Lets her wank him a little through the black velveteen. Kisses her. "Later, darling."

Her hand becomes more insistent. "Now, darling."

Persistence is Kimmy's best trait. "You have my word, sweetheart," he says, "that the next time we meet I'll give you the shag of a lifetime." (Which also happens to be true, because he's done it already. Time travel can be damn convenient at times.)

"What's the favour?"

He kisses her, persuading. "Stay with him. Take care of him."

She grins toothily, flashing the false fangs. "Can I shag him when he wakes?"

Oh, a woman after his own heart. "If he likes."

"Done." This kiss is as much vampire bite as snog -- the false incisors are a bit of kink that he's coming to enjoy. 

"You owe me one," she says.

"Yes, I do." And if memory serves, she'll be repaid handsomely.

She follows him outside. Jack is doing a passingly horrible impression of Random Guy Who Just Happens to Be Parked Innocently. (Yeah, like most guys from the early twenty-first are clothed in Goth gear beneath a leather duster.) Still, at least Jack has the good sense to lay low and let John hail a cab.

When they arrive at the dorms, John pays the cabbie enough to silently remind him not to be too nosy, and hoists Ianto onto his shoulder. Carries him upstairs. He and Kim carefully lay the boy out on the bed.

Kim is watching him. Without any prompting, she helps him undress Ianto. "Are you in love with him, Adam?"

He brushes a stray lock of hair from Ianto's sleeping face. "And if I were?"

Kim smiles understanding. Unties Ianto's other boot. Shrugs. "Think everyone is, sooner or later. There's just something about him makes you want to shag him one minute and protect him the next."

When they have Ianto naked and safely tucked up in bed, John pulls Kimmy into his arms and kisses her with gratitude he doesn't have to fake. "Thank you."

She gives him one more lovely caress through his trousers. "I'll collect later."

Reluctantly, he pulls away. "Next time," he promises.

 _He snaps awake_. Jack shakes off fatigue and disorientation. Stretches to relieve the aching muscles. Shifts to try to minimize the chafing that's starting to rub a few spots on his hips raw. How long has he been out? He checks the display on the dash. Only a few minutes. Good. Any second now...

John jerks the door open. Flops down sullenly on the back seat. Shuts the door with an operatic slam.

"Took you long enough," He watches his ex carefully in the rear view mirror. "Did you shag her too?"

"Fuck off, Jack."

He starts the car, unsure how to communicate his gratitude without losing face. "You did a good thing."

"Fuk U, Jak," John snarls. He folds his arms and nestles down into his seat, the very picture of resentment. "Fucking home, fucking Jeeves."

He is NOT going to laugh. He is NOT going to pick a fight. He is NOT going to do anything but drive them back to the hotel and follow John back up to the room.

Once the door is closed, he pulls John into his arms. Kisses him with something that feels like gratitude with a chaser of remorse.

John jerks away. Decks him. Pain explodes through his cheek. (Actually feels good in a weird sort of way.)

"Like I'd give you any after the stunt you just pulled," says John.

The throbbing in his cheek goes away almost immediately. (Immortality does have its up side.) And the punch gives him the chance to turn away long enough to palm and then mouth the RetCon. 

"It's not forever," he says. "It's just for now."

John is looking at him with such a mix of hate, love, indecision, and several more veiled emotions that Jack actually begins to wonder if he's finally getting through to him.

When Jack moves to kiss him again, his ex actually doesn't fight him. 

"I love you," Jack murmurs.

The words take John off guard just long enough for Jack to move the RetCon to the front of his mouth. His tongue jams it far back enough in John's mouth to foil whatever gag reflex John has left. The man chokes a little. Swallows in spite of himself. Comes up cursing. "You fucking BASTARD!"

"I can't take any chances." It's a mark of how much the years have worn him down that he feels only fatigue and not genuine remorse.

John decks him again, much harder this time. Tries to vomit the pill back up -- not that he could because the thing dissolves instantly -- the highest dose Jack can synthesize. To his credit, John fights it as long as he can. Jack avoids the punches. Swats the pulse pistol out of John's hand. (Damned if he can figure out where he got it from.) He stays out of John's reach. Waits for him to slump to the floor, unconscious.

He waits another minute, then heaves John onto the bed. "I'm sorry." He kisses him goodbye.

The hiss of a sonic hypo is loud in his ears. John's eyes are blue with triumph. 

"Son of a bitch!" Jack manages. It's been ages since he felt this tingle in his veins.

John laughs. "Getting rusty, are we, Jack?" he croaks. "Time was, you would never have fallen for that."

"You can't RetCon me!" Shit! Shit! ShitshitshitshitSHIT!

"I just did," says John. "Now hustle your pretty little ass down to the SUV or you'll lose your ride home."

"You can't...!" But he can already feel the fuzziness that precedes the black.

"You do me..." John's eyelids flutter closed. "I do you back."

Jack races down the stairs to the SUV. Gets in just as the blackness swallows him.

Later, the chiming of an incoming message wakes him. E-mail from Yvonne. Something about Jones. Something about her agreeing in writing to leave him alone so long as Jack keeps his promise to stay out of London. (Why the hell did I promise to stay out of London?) He struggles to remember. Struggles to put it together.

Then, he smells the cinnamon and sandalwood, and he can pretty well guess why he doesn't remember the rest. (Goddammit, John. When are you going to learn that we are OVER?)

And OW! Something's jabbing him in the ribs. And the hips. A cursory glance raises more questions than it answers. (The club wear Owen bought me for Christmas?)

"What the fuck?"

 _He snaps awake_. Draws the pulse pistol. No one there. No one in the room. A quick scan and consult of the symbiont reveals nothing. John's alone.

It's a beautiful room. The sheets reek of sex and champagne and possibly some lovely young man. John grins as the last dregs of hangover clear. He's been well laid, from the feel of it, and undoubtedly laid someone equally well in return.

Better still, whoever the layer/layee was, they had the courtesy to clear all their kit out before he woke. (Not sure why he's fully dressed, though. Usually he just lets his partner(s) leave on their own.)

Well, they took all their kit but one bit. A jeweled flask. Beautiful. False antique, but worth keeping all the same. He opens it. Sniffs. Absinthe. Interesting. That's usually Kimmy's M.O. Maybe there was a threesome? His body certainly remembers something energetic enough, and the room's destroyed enough, and his memory's fuzzy enough to support the theory that they partied like it was 1999 and then retired here for some excellent three-way shagging.

He carefully sets the flask on the bedside table. Good ol' Kimmy. He can always count on her for a good time with no strings.

Cheerful, John rings for room service.

 _He snaps awake_. Kim's beside him, cuddled into his arms. He's naked and so is she, so Ianto doesn't have to wonder what they've been up to. He relaxes a little, enjoying the warmth of a girl he'd be in love with if he had any sense at all.

"Mmm?"

He kisses her forehead. Smiling, she reaches up to snog him. He's not sure whose mouth tastes worse -- his or hers. She joins him in the grimace. Laughs with him. Reaches for her skirt, which is flopped in a heap of fabric over the chair across the room. (Only in a dorm room as small as his would "across the room" mean "an easy arms-length from the bed.)

Kim leans over him, a soft press of warm flesh. He holds her gently, telling himself it's to make sure she doesn't overbalance and fall, but in reality it's an excuse to reassure himself she's real. (His first love is real.)

The thought is so odd and out of place. (And blond. Something about blond.) No, Kim's never been blond, though she's been every other colour in the palate and even invented a couple. But he's never lost time and then awakened with someone before. He did have a few last night, he almost remembers. Maybe he's just waking up from a normal blackout.

Sweet. Hard. Kim's popped some sort of sweetie in his mouth. Raspberry. Lovely flavour. (Not metallic at all.) He holds her chest-to-chest, even as she takes another hard candy.

"Good morning," he says.

She crunches the sweetie with abandon. "Good morning."

He shifts his own candy to the other cheek. Considers...

She kisses him again before he can decide what to do next. Pulls hungrily at his mouth. Nibbles his lower lip. Teases with her tongue. Makes a curious kind of love with each kiss.

Then she sucks the candy from his mouth and crunches it in triumph.

He watches, bemused. "That was either deft and clever, sexy as hell, or completely disgusting."

She swallows with gusto. (Yes, please.) "Why not all three?"

Kissing. More kissing. He loves kissing her as much as she seems to love kissing him. Every movement of her mouth reassures him. (I swear to you I will never abandon you to them.) Every snog makes him forget about anyone (blond) but her.

He wants her. She wants him. She strokes him with confident fingers. He slips a hand down until he finds soft, wet heat. She snogs him harder. (Weird as it may sound, the false fangs are sort of a turn on. He loves the bite.) She presses him back. Mounts him in one smooth move. It feels fantastic, all liquid heat. He moans, smiling. Enjoys the leisurely shag.

She grinds down onto him with confident strokes. "All right, love?"

"Yeah." He curls his hands around her hips. "Fine, thanks." He pulls her harder onto him. Angles up just a little to hit...

Kim comes violently. Bites her lip hard to muffle the scream. (Quite the compliment.) Smiling, he moves beneath her. Strokes her harder. Deeper. Brings them to a climax that shudders through them both.

Panting, she bends over him. Kisses him. He snogs her right back.

Uncoordinated but smiling, she slides off him. Curls up next to him. Pulls the somewhat raggedy bedclothes over them. "In another minute," she pants. "I'll want to do that again."

"Me too." He smiles. This warm feeling is almost like what it must be like to be happy. Life would be so much easier if he were in love with someone like Kim. As it is, he's quite fond of her -- she's always been kind to him.

"Kim?"

She snuggles closer. "Yes, love?"

"What--" he struggles to find a way to not make this sound completely insane. "What happened last night?"

She chuckles. "You came to the rave. We danced. Had some really fantastic stuff -- some mine, some from a friend. You invited me back to your place."

Blond hair. Why does he keep seeing blond hair? (Short-cropped, like a man's.) "And then?"

Another lascivious chuckle. "What d'you think?" She kisses him, lingering. "You were fantastic."

Happy. He should be happy. At least he's here with someone who cares about him. (And seems determined to lay him again as soon as both of them are up for it.) Everything should be shiny and happy and good, but no matter how hard he tries to make himself believe Kim's story is the truth, it's there again at the back of his mind -- the fear that's dogged him ever since he moved to London and yet still kept losing time.

_It's happening again..._

END

"a love struck romeo  
sings the streets a serenade  
now he's laying everybody low   
he's got a love song that he made  
he finds a convenient streetlight  
and he steps out of the shade  
and says something like   
"you and me, babe, how about it?"

"juliet says "hey, it's romeo!"   
"you nearly give me a heart attack!"   
yeah well, he's underneath my window  
now she's singing "hey-la, my boyfriend's back"  
"you shouldn't come around here   
singing up at people like that  
ah anyway, whatcha gonna do about it?"

"juliet  
the dice were loaded from the start  
and i bet and you exploded into my heart  
and i forget, i forget the movie song  
when you gonna realize  
it was just that the time was wrong..."  
(Indigo Girls)

 

[Beta's Note: While _Ecstasy_ can stand on its own, it was written as an interleaved prequel to _Faithful_.

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally For lj user aibhinn's [ficathon](http://aibhinn.livejournal.com/507654.html), your delectation, and Faithful's back-history. Prompts: _tease, dance, truth_
> 
> Like everything else I write, this wasn't supposed to be this long. I and O had entirely too much fun dressing* Jack, John, and Ianto, and I had entirely too much fun with the rotating POV. [ _*Pity me, the horrible, horrible things I'm forced to do as Junior Researcher. LSA: "Go forth and find me pics of hot men in gorgeous Goth clothing, so we know what the boys should look like." Me: "Sir, yes SIR!" -O_ ]


End file.
